Power

Power takes on many forms 

 

    First of all, I know there is power in each moment that someone decides to put their creativity first, and to consciously make space and time to nurture it. So is there, in learning to read one’s creative writings out loud amidst a group of strangers, and I love to train my racing heartbeat to get used to the emotions running through my body. Learning to let them be, and let my voice speak, not getting lost in the fear but letting it find fuel in this combination of excitement and anxiety.

 

    Power is a man who doesn’t need to scream in order to get attention. 

His natural sense of authority comes from confidence gained through life experience, and a waving over his heart to release the anger towards people that hurt him. He makes you feel heard, respected and seen.  

 

    Power is inherent in every woman. From the womb up until to the ends of each toe and fingertip. In the ways she has learnt to be the bigger person, facing the immaturity of many men. In honoring her emotions and her cycle, which flows against the current of capitalism. 

 

    Powerful is the rain, the wind or any external circumstance really and the toll it exerts on me on a fragile day. But what day isn’t fragile. It fills me with physical strength, which gets mistaken with power. And suddenly I want to push, scream, destroy. Massacre.

The screen of my iPhone is in danger again.

 

    Powerful are the words I use to manifest.

So I should be careful with the things I say.

 

     Sometimes I feel like I am writing to him, to try and prove myself and show him that I still exist because I don't want him to forget me. Is that putting power into his hands?

 

    Power is in the eyes of my ex, who often dressed in black, yet looked so good in white. 

 

    It is the art of letting go of those people in your life that hurt you and are no longer serving you. It is the motivation to wake up before sunrise and bike to the sea to wash that person off of you, screaming them away, along with your anger which transforms into tears, which dissolve into the salty sea water, which represents the first step in healing.

 

    I see the face of resurrection as he walks through the church halls colored in red, blue and yellow strokes by the stained glass. His skin, new and clean, carries a post-growth glitter. It stands in contrast with the darkness of his thick hair and brown eyes, which have died and come back to life more than once.