Moving Mountains

It’s really bloody hard accepting who I am, not just the ‘nice’ bits or the tight and tidy parts but the whole loose and dirty shebang.

I have a sneaky suspicion, a hope that maybe when I do reach acceptance, total and absolute acceptance, thoughts of impossible won’t crowd me anymore.

Maybe distance won’t exist because I’m everywhere I want to be.

Maybe I’ll be a light so powerful I can strike to sculpt mountains and carve crystals.

My skin might become translucent and inside I’m so bright I’ll attract the flies and the bees and inquisitive birds.

Possibly, I’ll invite time to dance within my golden core, getting lost in my rhythm and retiring early to bathe in my 24ct waters.

My tears could fill depleting oceans and quench thirsty soils and I could raise disillusioned spirits who crave to be seen.

Or maybe, just maybe I won’t be any of the above. I’ll just be me and that will be all I’ll ever need to be.

And in the certainty of accepting all of who I AM, no words of others or spiteful actions or sharp pains could move me to places of panic or self-harm.

And maybe, in me, I could shift the stubborn and the lost and the control freak and the judgement.

I could shift the immovable by accepting everything, just by being.

Because reaching the point of being means there’s no-one else I’d rather be apart from the woman I AM, me.