courage, dear heart. you can do this.

you’ve changed, haven’t you?

all the truth that you once nailed to the inside of your heart — ran your fingers over every day when nobody was looking — none of it makes sense anymore, does it?

none of it.

and you’ve stared out of windows, and all those tiny cracks in your life, searching for the light, and for that thing that makes it all fall into place, and you’ve found it.

at last.

haven’t you?

and it doesn’t look like what you knew before, and it doesn’t look like anyone else’s, and how do you walk away from all that you’ve known?

and now, you’re afraid.

afraid of walking out your front door wearing your new life, knowing that they might not understand, and you’re lying there in the middle of the darkest thinking hours of the night, hoping they will see how lovely this new life looks on you, but all you can feel is fear.

why?

why are you so afraid of another’s eyes on your heart? have you not scraped enough pain from your skin to feel — to know, that it is ok for you to change? have you not discovered yet, that it is ok to change your mind about things — the biggest things, the smallest things, and even the holiest things.

you can change your mind about anything, really.

really.

because truth has found you in the most unexpected of places, and you have had to grow out of your skin, your birthday, your promises and your life, in order to know that you are only halfway there and suddenly, or maybe not, time has been shy, you realised that the joy that was once blooming in the middle of your heart, is dead, and has been for a while, and that living a lie will not bring it back to life.

only living, will, and

the light is out there waiting for you. waiting just for you to start putting down all the things that no longer fit into your hands, and your bones, and your mouth, and your eyes, and your life is there too, breathing in and breathing out.

with, or without you, and

you might have to undo a vow, or change holy books, or change the way that you have always ticked boxes, and loved yourself, but this can all be done, and

it is scary to stand there, naked from your bones to the tip of your heart, and yes, some of them will not understand, and yes, some of them will not be able to stay, and that is ok.

really, it is.

let them leave.

new people will come.

really — they will, because

do you know how beautiful your truth finally looks on you?

courage, dear heart.

you can do this.

— courage, dear heart. you can do this.

© Liezel Graham 2019.

Photograph by Kat Jayne.

the old man at the door saw me.

today, on our way to a place

that holds joy for my son, i saw an old house — falling apart, but held together, somehow, by a hot pink camellia bleeding joy, brazenly onto the walls and the front of the sidewalk, and nobody saw this sign, but

i did.

and later, i saw an old man at a door, checking tickets, and i started to breathe the word autism, hoping for more than we need, and he saw my eyes, and my heart, and my fear, and my boy, and he said, aye, you’re alright, and enjoy — in that big scottish way, and he gave me a smile, and his light, that said, see! it’s going to be alright, wait and see, and

my child — barely ten and a few sleepless nights fresh from my womb, stood in the shadow of something that breathed 150 million years ago when the land looked so much different, and

life was more peaceful, i think, and he was in awe at those bones, and i stood there smiling at my cup spilling over, right here and right now, but not everyone can see through the mess, sometimes — these miracles that find me — stars, that guide me all the way home, and

last night when i was afraid of undressing my heart, and my words were more salt, than they were light, a friend said, it’s ok, no need to explain or apologise, your journey home is yours, and yours alone, and i carried her gift all night until the sun rose fresh over my life again.

and people have been climbing out of closets, and boxes, and other locked rooms for centuries, have they not? and still, life breathes and breaks new every couple of hours, but not everyone sees, but

i do.

and i look for the way that God breaks wide open in a face, in a smile, and the way that eyes can lift a heart right out of the mud and the dark, and how so many roads lead home, and i walk them, wandering here and there, and would you know? that,

everywhere i go i find others who hear the same silence, weaving songs from notes as ancient as bone, and who are not afraid of hands that flap and fold like birds, flying up, to heaven and back.

they, who keep watch over windows, and doors, and other ways into a soul — who hold up the walls that are crumbling, with light, and who say, aye, you’re ok, it’s going to be alright, just you wait and see.

— the old man at the door saw me.

© Liezel Graham 2019.

Photograph by Juan Pablo Arenas.

on finding my place.

one starry night, the woman took a walk inside of herself to the quiet places that she loved to visit, and

there, under the karoo sun, she could play barefoot again, unworried about ice and snow and other cold things, and her young hands could tease the

hot earth for tiny fragments of blue glass hidden in the soil, and

one day i will be an archaeologist and i will dig for things — beautiful things, in the dirt, and i will have rooms full of books and i will travel the world and see pyramids and other beautiful, broken things, and we will see each other and smile — the broken things and i — and i will never have to prove that i do know things and they are all wrong about me and perhaps i will finally belong, and i wonder what that feels like, to fit snugly in a place and in a life, like your shape was made to belong, but

some don’t, do they — belong?

and some people aren’t made

to fit into round holes, because they have sharp edges and sharp corners where the loveliest things hide, but not everybody can see this and not everybody knows, and it takes a very long time for a soft, square heart to know that it is ok not to be round,

and i have been scratching in the dust for years to find hope and life and other green things, and

i have grown soft with love for myself, and i still look for fragments and other broken things in places where others see dirt, and

this is my gift — to see the loveliness in a man’s skin, and to hear africa in his voice as our children swim together, here, far from home, and to see hope in the eyes of a woman who crossed deserts and bullets

with children in tow and then

still the oceans, too — what did she know about water so deep and so fierce, other than that it was safer than the hearts from where she ran, and i look for smiles and people who walk straight into you with mouths that bow up to the light, and eyes that sparkle like glass in the sun — these are the things that i search for now, and when i find them, i turn them over, and over, in my hands and when my hunger is satisfied i hide them, deep in a corner, and oh

you should see all the beauty that i have hidden inside here, on this side of my walls, and finally i belong.

— on finding my place.

© Liezel Graham 2019.

Photograph by Tim Mossholder.

self (worth).

does the sparrow

count

her worth,

in seeds found,

at the end of the day?

a tallying of

numbers

lining up

with avian goals

to achieve,

until

the figures

nod

approval to

her

existence,

or does she simply

rest,

content,

with full belly

in her warm nest,

a life

lived.

— (self)worth.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

I have been working on my internal dialogue — the driven personality that seeks to find (my) worth in what I do.

A counting of what I can tick off my to-do list at the end of the day and only once that list is long enough, full enough, allowing myself the pat on the back, the well done.