CXLIV

I know what the love of a good man can do. 

I wish I could say 

I could have done it for myself, 

but it isn't true. 

A good man will take the negative noise a woman can't help but hear, 

and speak louder to her. 

He'll stand before her, and block it all from view. 

He'll fill up the room if he has to. 

I look in the mirror, 

most days, 

and admire what I see, 

because the love of a good man taught me to. 

I encounter a stranger and don't waver, 

or fall 

from standing on my own two feet, 

because the love of a good man taught me to. 

I hear the sound of my own voice, 

in the hush of a quiet room, 

and I speak in strong, steady beats, 

because the love of a good man taught me to. 

I think I knew, 

all along, 

that I was worth the world and more, 

but the love of a good man let me wrestle 

with the chance that I wasn't,

and never come up short. 

We like to be self-made, and battle-worn, 

and wisdom-aged, 

and hard-won. 

But I know what the love of a good man can do. 

He took everything I already knew, and proved it to be true.

CXLIII

14/9: I miss you everyday, if not in waking them in my dreams. 

[Image: Barbara Palvin and Jordan Barrett for C Magazine Sep '17]

CXLII

We blossom and flourish
as leaves on the tree,
And wither and perish -
but naught changeth Thee.

- Ancient Hymn


[Image: Freja Beha Erichsen by Lachlan Bailey for WSJ Magazine Sep '15]

CXLI

I listen to see if hope is still there. In my heart, in my mind, in my mind's eye. In my soul. I listen because hope comes like a whisper, most times, and you must quiet yourself to hear it. So I quiet. I breathe slow. I pause and do not exhale. Until I hear it. The still small voice. The flutter in my chest - not the physical sensation, the sound of it. Soft as a feather, light as the lightest touch, warm like the winter sun through once-frosted glass. Strong in the way that spiderwebs are strong. True as the needle of a compass pointing North. I hear it all, most days, but today I need to strain to listen.
Don't give up.
Don't give in.
Don't give up.
Don't give in.
Hope comes in the morning. And every morning she sings to me, from the depths of my own soul. Softly, sweetly, she sings to me. And even if the day is bleak, and the night was long, when I hear my soul sing to me, I know one of these days He'll come home.
Don't give up.
Don't give in.
Don't give up.
Don't give in.
Hope comes in the morning.
Softly, sweetly.
Hear my soul sing.
Don't give up.
Don't give in.




[Image: ELLE Denmark]

CXL

ON the day when
The weight deadens
On your shoulders
And you stumble,
May the clay dance
To balance you.

And when your eyes
Freeze behind
The grey window
And the ghost of loss
Gets into you,
May a flock of colours,
Indigo, red, green
And azure blue,
Come to awaken in you
A meadow of delight.

When the canvas frays
In the currach of thought
And a stain of ocean
Blackens beneath you,
May there come across the waters
A path of yellow moonlight
To bring you safely home.

May the nourishment of the earth be yours,
May the clarity of light be yours,
May the fluency of the ocean be yours,
May the protection of the ancestors be yours.

And so may a slow
Wind work these words
Of love around you,
An invisible cloak
To mind your life.

Beannacht, John O'Donohue; from To Bless the Space Between Us: A Book of Blessings

CXXXIX

31/8: How do I feel? I feel like the world is caving in. On the 15cm squared of chest above where my heart should be. I don't know that it's there, I can't feel it for the weight of the world caving in upon it. 

[Artwork: Untitled, Ellsworth Kelly]

CXXXVIII

2/9: I filled my house with flowers to help me forget that you were gone. Now the smell of them reminds me of you, don't ask me. 

[Artwork: Kenesha Sneed]