remembering my manifesto.

 

i spent a long time deciding what words would find their way 

into my manifesto.

i wanted to remind myself,

simply and clearly

of what i stood for.

what i believed with my whole heart.

those phrases are here

and because my manifesto

was only  written on my blog

and i don't go back and read over my posts regularly

(but i do occasionally)

i hadn't seen the words for what turned out to be too long.

i had forgotten some.

last week was tough.

and i needed some reminders.

i went searching to remember and return to the roots of me.

and i laughed when i remembered that i need to always carry benadryl.

now that i am eating again, that is a daily necessity.

and i had forgotten that i promised to light candles.

and so i have begun again.

the little things.

the ones we don't think matter, but do.

snail mail.

started that again a few weeks ago

and my goodness i felt grounded.

the big ones.

loving big and listening to my heart whispers.

so glad i put those on there.

so grateful i want to remind myself daily to be who i am meant to be.

the manifesto got copied out

all hurried and messily into my current journal

and i am finding myself returning to it again and again.

checking in on myself,

 remembering what makes my heart sing, 

using the words as boundaries and "atta girl!"

for guiding my days.

i appreciate this space,

even as i return to it less and less

because it allows me to look back,

to recall, to remind, to notice patterns, growth and stories of my days.

do you have a manifesto?

a guiding word?

{mine is stretch this year}

i recommend the practice.

"make yourself into a project"

 

he has said it before and i don't think i listened.

"make yourself into a project. you love projects"

and yet,

despite the love i have for such endeavors,

i have found myself  still resisting

wanting to meet myself 

and my self care

at an angle, 

sideways, not head on.

not honestly.

 avoiding

i wish i could tell you,

tell myself 

why i am so resistant to putting physical wellness in the center of my life.

i search through my stories,

looking for clues and of course i find them-

the pieces are all there

and i understand and i "do the work"

because i am a friend of the emotional and mental work of wellness

 i make baby steps

and there are moments of wisdom and breakthru

but i don't really do anything in the physical realm

(other than take my medicine)

(which is actually a huge break thru for me)

until the cycle repeats

 and i find myself

once again buried beneath the rest of my life.

does this happen to you as well?

i am in love with my life.

that's an important truth that i want to shout from the rooftop.

i have returned to a schedule that i have carefully chosen

and fully participated in the making of.

i work because i choose to, want to, love to

i am doing my schooling because it is important to me.

i participate fully with my family

 and consider each of those moments,

( regardless of how intense and weary, 

how late the nights, how long the walk)

 we share to be a gift.

yet,

i forget about myself.

the physical part of myself.

 i avoid the reality that i am brand new into a remission

that may or may not stay with me.

i need a plan.

i need to be a project. 

i want to figure this out.

 

seeing the truth of the situation is freeing.

saying that i struggle with wellness allows for acceptance and grace.

now i move onward.

project strong tania

i shall call it.

i see a new journal in my future

and maybe some running shoes

(for walking)

 

 

 

oh the stories i could tell

from August.

i am a tad late but in keeping with a series

here it is.

 

 

i really liked the stories May held for me.

Sunday

 

Sunday

sweet Sunday

the day for sleeping in

and drinking tea

for visits to book stores with my mama

and 

endless games played on the floor in the living room

for crock pots filled with stew

and warm fuzzy blankets

{the first day this september}

Sunday 

sweet Sunday

the day for early to bed

and late night journal spilling

for anticipations and determinations 

a bright shiny week ahead.

Sunday 

sweet Sunday

my most favorite day

 

navigating

 

i keep picturing a bridge,

long and rustic, missing planks.

you know the type?

i imagine it sways a little, and is surrounded by deep forest.

there is probably a raging river underneath.

west coast walking bridge

 crossings are often wet and slippery.

and i never seem to have the right shoes.

 

 it is the bridge between illness and remission

and it is hard to navigate.

i made the naive, optimistic assumption

 while i was so ill that i would leap 

magnificently into remission when it arrived

and well, that has not been the case.

but remission is here. and i take each day it gives me

thankful and somewhat stunned

 as i eat a sandwich, 

or pop a piece of fruit into my mouth.

and i carry on with minimal pain,

 renewed energy and padding on my bones.

{i can eat most anything!}

the challenge of navigating the transition has been very hard.

{does that sound like i am resisting remission?}

i am not.

it is just  this complex mixture of gratitude and grief.

saying goodbye to one life, making room for a new one,

one that looks oh so different than i imagined. 

even in remission there is care to be taken,

side effects to navigate, expectations of myself that need to be considered.

i need to stay in this place of wellness

and that will only happen if i learn to be a gentle caretaker of myself.

{this lesson of care continues to be hard for me, even now, even after all of that learning}

i keep losing my footing in the gaps that are still present

the gaps of self care, 

the gaps of "too much" 

the gaps of false expectations

and i find myself stumbling forward, clinging, crawling,

 willing myself across.

"go all the way" 

i whisper to myself in the toughest spots.

 "it is bright over there"

the pace is frustratingly slow 

and i am having to be mighty, mighty patient with myself.

i am here. 

tentative and slightly bruised for completely different reasons

but the words are returning to me.

17 pages in 4 days have dumped themselves into my journal,

scrambling over one another to find their spot.

i go back, after i have written, trying to make sense of it,

circling, underlining, adding in with new colour.

i am grateful.

for the gift of bread breaking and the spilling of words.

oh so grateful.