Scale.

I know

a woman

round and

lush and

nurturing,

who fought

a war

with her body.

Believing

that

by becoming

less,

she would

become

more.

Reducing who she was

meal

by

meal

until her soul was

hollow

and still

the numbers

did not equate

with peace.

— Scale.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

The places I cannot go, yet.

I am

a house of

many rooms.

Quiet, dusty corridors

sunlight

gently

dripping in

like liquid

gold.

How I love to drink my tea,

a lovely Assam,

malty on the tongue

and comforting,

as I walk through

these spaces

gently touching

things

I had

almost

forgotten.

But not

yet.

It is comforting

to find

old friends.

You,

and you,

and even

you.

We must stay in

touch,

I say

to the past.

But

some doors

are

locked.

In dark corners

where the

light

does not

quite

reach.

And try as I might

when I stand before them

trembling key in

hand

I cannot enter.

I cannot enter

though

I must.

There is

work

to be done

within,

but not

yet.

And so,

instead

I sit before them

quietly

weeping

ink

onto paper.

Until.

— The places I cannot go, yet.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

Give from your need.

And I sat

before

God

holding

my hunger in cupped hands before Him.

‘This child within me

has needed so

much’,

I whispered, ‘But there was nobody to feed her

heart.

What do I do with this lack?’

‘Look for the broken ones.

Be the softness that you needed.

Speak the words that

your heart cried out for

in desperation.

Encircle them

with your walls

if they are in need of

protection.

Sing a love song over

their fractured

hearts.

Feed them

from

your

hunger,

because

I

Am

enough.

For you.

Fill the bowls of

the hungry

with your

ashes and you will grow

fat with peace.’

— Give from your need.

When war breaks out (I bleed flowers).

My heart

splinters

under the weight

of these

memories.

Relentless in their

immortality;

demanding space

within my head.

Behind my eyes.

Insisting on life.

And still,

despite this war,

I choose to

bleed

flowers

instead of pain.

It is a quiet

rebellion.

—When war breaks out (I bleed flowers)

Learning to live unafraid.

To live, unafraid.

Surrendered.

My heart at peace.

My future,

yielded.

Just breathing in

this exquisite

gift

of now.

— Learning to live unafraid.

The last few weeks have brought me personal reason to step back — quiet myself within and listen.

Listen for that still voice showing me (once again) what really matters. And how I need to fight — really hard, for these things, because they don’t come to us easily.

Living unafraid is not our natural state, is it?

Anxiety and fear about things beyond my control — important life-and-death things, are threatening to rob me of so much.

I am surrendering.

Learning to live unafraid.

It’s big, and bold, and unreasonably brave.