![selva437.jpg](https://files.steempeak.com/file/steempeak/zipporah/4Fh9OeaW-selva-437.jpg)

___

<h4> Finding My Words </h4> 

There's a strange difficulty in *'restarting'* – in making marks in spaces that have remained so long empty and quiet. Like speaking after prolonged silences....voice cracking and reluctant – unsure and unsteady – as it remembers how to speak. 

With unhurried fingertips resting on keys, I close my eyes, reaching inward to gently rouse my words from their lengthy slumber – coaxing letters from their disjointed, solitary sleep – breathing patiently as *slowly*, they begin to find their way back to one another – organizing themselves into familiar patterns. 

This linguistic dance has always had a potent, alchemical effect on me. Writing accesses parts of my brain that might otherwise remain untouched, bypassing the overcrowded places that are rampant with habitual thinking. *Though I know it's the very best medicine available to me*, I'm too often guided by self-sabotaging impulses that would sooner forget just how crucial it is to my survival. 

Today...I'm *choosing to remember.* 

___

![stock702.jpg](https://files.steempeak.com/file/steempeak/zipporah/pULdaWo4-stock-702.jpg)
___

<h4> Overfull </h4> 

I've been navigating a strange emotional landscape these last few months. I've kept myself forever busy, knowing – on some level – that doing so was a means of willful avoidance. I've intentionally overfilled my plate, covering every inch and then some with *obligation*, leaving no room for distress. 

My days have passed in endless pursuit of *'to-do'* lists, moving between tasks in a kind of  survival-mode autopilot, careful not to leave gaps; *cracks through which my grief might spill.* 

Beneath the busy-ness, a deep melancholy persists. Heartache whispers from the periphery, tugging at my sleeve like a neglected child, begging for attention. 

*'Not now'* – I say, repeatedly brushing it aside – *'I don't have time for a breakdown.'*

___

![hyampom49.jpg](https://files.steempeak.com/file/steempeak/zipporah/BTFqHplT-hyampom-49.jpg)
___

<h4> It was only a matter of time. </h4>

Last night, after delivering files to a client, I was faced with a greatly reduced list – that string of productive distractions that has helped keep the sadness at bay. Woven through the relief at having completed so much work was a thread of panic. 

A familiar tugging came at my sleeve. This time, I had no good excuse; *yet I still wasn't ready.* 

The wisest part of me knew what I *should* do. Still, I ignored the faint suggestion that, perhaps...it was time to sit with my anguish – to face it with compassion and allow it to tell its story – to work itself out through writing. 

Instead, I watched several episodes of *'The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel'* and laughed heartily. I laughed...*and then I cried*. I suppose I needed that to unpin my stubborn evasion.

Laughter and tears spring from the same source; *I should've known I was opening the floodgates.*

___

![bali2.jpg](https://files.steempeak.com/file/steempeak/zipporah/wSEVPnL1-bali-2.jpg)
___

<h4> Inevitable Deluge </h4>

I cried myself to sleep. *I haven't done that in a really long time.*

I let go my defenses, allowing despair to grip me, finally – acknowledging its depth and texture – listening, without interjecting...without trying to guide nor define it. 

There was no specificity to my weeping, simply a long-overdue expression of all that I've been deflecting – an accumulation of loneliness, disappointment, exhaustion and pain. 

After so many months of forced silence, all it wanted was to be *heard* and *recognized* – to be granted permission...*simply to BE.*

___

![stock528.jpg](https://files.steempeak.com/file/steempeak/zipporah/CHIFsMRh-stock-528.jpg)
___

<h4> The Calm After... </h4>

I awoke with that subtle headache that often follows a good cry. Rather than immediately leaving the warm embrace of my flannel sheets, I languished for a while, relishing a kind of spaciousness I haven't felt in quite some time. 

Today finds me liberated from the assiduous escapism that has so defined my life since September. I feel delicate, but not vulnerable – drained, but not depleted – humble, but not ashamed.

There's a certain buoyancy that comes with letting go, as though the salt from my tears is lifting and carrying me – like I'm *floating on* rather than *drowning in* the river of my sorrow.

Think I'll lay back a while and surrender to its current – *see where it takes me.*

___

<sup> <i> deep bows of gratitude for all you lovely humans who haven't given up on me, even when I've been trying to give up on myself. <b> I so appreciate all of you.</b> xo, zippy </i> </sup>

___

[![raindrop-promo-thin.jpg](https://steemitimages.com/DQmXfALq2HgUikeQzv3ijkmNYGyMpeMgZox5wiw2KLqSVE4/raindrop-promo-thin.jpg)]( https://zippylomax.com )