unravel.

and then

there was the time

.

. a lifetime,

really.

.

if i am honest.

.

and

honesty

opens the door,

does it not?

.

the time

where

i gave pieces of myself

away.

.

. my

. flesh and bone

heart of stone.

.

allowed

my body

and

my soul

to be carried away

by

thieves

who faded into the dark,

.

because i was not enough

for

me.

.

because the voice

inside

my bones,

. one half of my dna,

found

me

wanting,

.

until i believed the lie.

.

and all i have ever wanted

was to be

enough.

.

such a hungry word.

.

. enough.

.

and i have scraped

portions

of my heart

onto the plates of others.

.

. by feeding them,

i have tried to fill my hunger.

.

a feeble attempt at peace.

.

but i am not

enough

to fill the bellies

of other starving seekers.

.

this, i know.

.

and i am

still trying

to trust

that

everything that i am

is all that you have ever wanted.

.

. enough.

. such a full word.

.

that i can call off the search

for love

and

hope

and

(self) respect

and

all the other things

that

i have searched for

in the thorns

and

the arms

and

the words

and

the eyes

of another.

.

there are roots to destroy

and

flowers to sow

and

new doors to walk through.

.

this,

is a fierce

undoing of myself.

.

an

unravelling

and

unlayering

of who i am,

until

i find the beginning

. of me.

—unravel.

.

.

© Liezel Graham 2019.

.

.

Photograph by Nita.

on letting go of what is gone.

the silver birch

and

the oak,

called me into the woods

today.

.

.

i carried with me

all the things

that i have ever lost

.

. and never let go of.

.

.

and the weight of it all

was counted

in fear.

.

.

and

i sat beneath

the bare arms of the birch, reaching up.

.

.

. always up,

despite her season

of nakedness

and loss.

.

.

and we sang a lament

together.

. an ancient song

of letting go.

.

.

and it was hard.

.

.

loss,

can scrape the joy

right

out

of your bones.

.

.

and that,

which i never wanted to give up,

.

.

brought life,

. in the end,

like

. dead leaves

on the woodland floor.

.

.

and the silver birch

and

the oak,

sent their roots down,

.

.

deep

. deep,

down

into

the earth,

.

.

and asked for more.

—on letting go of what is gone.

.

.

© Liezel Graham 2019.

.

.

Photograph by Skitterphoto.com

a new year’s song.

the year is dying in my hands

and

. i am filling my apron

with a feather

. for hope,

and

tiny bits of tumbled sea glass

. for courage.

.

.

when the waters rise,

. they will not wash over me.

.

.

a pinch of faith,

. you only need a little,

and

a quilt of mercy

to warm my heart

.

that

at

times

has

loved

so coldly.

.

. i will guard the spring.

.

guard it fiercely,

so that only

love

will

flow,

. but i know

that i am cut from rough cloth

and

grace

is the bread that keeps me alive,

.

and you.

.

so

i will give

. and give

. and give,

until

we cannot see

who we once were,

. for all the love.

.

that,

is how they will recognise us.

.

.

the broken ones.

.

not the knowledge.

not the perfection.

not the raised eyebrow,

.

but

the

love.

.

it’s how i recognised you,

when

all

i had known was failure.

.

you loved me first,

and

never

stopped.

.

and i will not worry about

my hips

or

my wrinkles

or

my yesterdays

or

my tomorrows.

.

i am held.

.

and because i am the one,

.

that

one,

.

who deserves an entire parable.

. yes.

.

the one

who wanders

and

strays .

into thickets

. and

thorns,

where others see the danger,

i will remember that i was searched for

. over and over,

every time

and

i too will

. search

when others get lost.

.

i will not be the pointing finger,

but

the open hand that says,

. here i am.

.

let me be

a light in a glass jar,

. shining

in spite of it all.

.

.

—a new year’s song.

.

.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

.

.

Photograph by Martí Pardo.

.

.

Friends,

.

.

I wish you a peaceful, spacious

new year.

.

.

Know that you are held

and that though they may rise,

the waters will not wash over you,

.

.

liezel