Being Beautiful Means Being Our Crazy, Silly, Embarrassing Selves and Loving Every Moment of It
Time stood still, as we existed amongst one another in a silence that salved our souls, while we peered out into the center of the Milky Way, tracing its curves with our fingertips. Minutes passed before we spoke, and in those mere minutes I remember recognizing that feeling. The kind where nothing else mattered, because past and future remained in their place, and only that single moment, that sliver of time meant everything.
I have not been able to write for 3 years now. Sounds dramatic, I know, but it’s not untrue. Whatever skill or discipline I developed for myself since I began posting my writing in 2015 has mysteriously vanished since 2020, and I’ve been grasping onto as many faint strands of whatever is left of it ever since.
I watch the corners of your mouth curl up, as you tilt your face towards the sun and close your eyes. It’s the perfect October afternoon, the kind where the air is crisp, the sky is a nearly cloudless blue, and the sun is still high in its downward path into the night. We walk our usual route, on the south side towards the water.
The city feels different here.
The old streets run north-south, but curve back and forth, like ocean waves, pulling us along them from side to side. The houses are so unique, each with a character of its own and a story to tell. But what mesmerized me the most, would always be the old trees. With their immense roots pressed deep into the earth, they stood taller than the ones back home. Their branches spanned farther and wider, effortlessly mapping out the blue sky. I pause for a moment and look up, watching the rays of sunlight sparkle between the red and orange leaves as they sway, so slightly in the lake breeze. It feels surreal. As we walk, I scan our surroundings, blissfully soaking in every detail. Occasionally releasing your hand, I pull out my phone and capture whatever it is that has me in awe, before quickly returning it safely to my pocket and continuing along beside you.
‘Take your time’, you say, seeming at complete ease, reaching out your hand for mine.
As I pull myself up against your side and rest my cheek upon your shoulder, I smile. I knew full well that this would become one of those moments. The kind you wish you could freeze, but would still somehow become etched into your memories. The kind where everything around you, the trees, the sun, the lake, and the breeze, made you feel like all of this was meant to be; like they knew, as much as you, that this moment, this feeling, and this person standing hand in hand beside you, was something very special.
We are all going through something. Whether it’s something that looms across the entirety of our day, or perhaps it’s a single thought that only occupies a few fleeting moments of our time, in any case, I’ve come to realize that we are all going through something. We are all thinking, processing, internalizing, pushing aside, accepting or letting go of something, and it’s truly unfortunate that so many of us go at it alone.
Here’s to no longer being afraid of my age, to no longer fearing falling behind, or feeling like I’m not there yet. To no longer measuring myself up next to someone else’s ruler, comparing my life to someone else’s path, or my accomplishments against someone …
the air is thick,
this room is hazy
I know you’re close,
heart beats are racing.
a sea of bodies surrounds me,
not a face of despair
I catch yours in the crowd,
and I can’t help but stare.
you smile back
somehow,
you make all of this feel so easy
my world’s been spinning
yet,
you’ve figured out how to ground me.
part this sea for me,
come close,
just hold me tight,
take me back to the moment,
when we lost the good fight.
remember?
first kissed in a room that was pitch black,
I found your hand, you kissed mine, worlds collided, that was that.
dance with me,
like we did in the Southside
holding each other, swaying to 90’s R&B vibes
I swear,
sometimes these memories,
feel more like a lucid dream
picked apart, pieced together, as if only to play back the best scenes.
yet,
I know I can’t be dreaming,
this right here,
between us,
feels like more than that.
carved out moments in space and time,
memories I won’t forget
and I know
right now,
this feels easy,
and things are bound to change
but I promise you I’ll hold you down,
if you promise to do the same.
for now,
let’s just be free,
chase this music,
come dance with me.
just hold me in your arms again,
let’s dance,
until the music ends.
In 2020, I identified a serious gap in my understanding of Black history. In a small, but much-needed attempt to fill that gap, I decided to begin my learnings with this highly recommended story. In support of Black History Month, I thought I’d share. Homegoing …
I’ve been reflecting a lot about the past year, and how different it’s been from the previous ones. This year felt like the longest year of my life, yet it leaves me completely bewildered that the now infamous month of March is only 3 months …
An Ode to my Favourite Season; here is one of my favourite pieces.
As the Wind ran his familiar fingers across my cheeks, he played with my hair, freeing strands from under my scarf. Unfazed and determined to catch my bus, I continued to walk. Persistent, the Wind blew a little harder, surpassing the wool of my coat, sending a slight chill across my skin.
“Look,” he begged.
Stealing my attention, I looked up from my phone and felt my eyes grow wide and my lungs catch their breath. Like rain in July, a thousand golden souls fell gently from the sky. It was magnificent. Pleased with himself, the Wind swept back around, brushing past me, leaving behind only a soft whisper.
“Listen,” he said as he dove almost into the Earth itself, awakening a thousand more from their graves, breathing vigor into their core. Like children, they danced around my ankles, twirling in circles, asynchronously jumping up and down. I listened to the familiar rustling, like butterflies fluttering in the spring. Inhaling deeply, I smiled. The Wind sailed around me once more, this time drawing with him my distracted thoughts and insubstantial worries.
“Thank you,” I whispered back, as my feet continued on their usual route, only this time a little slower.
#BePresent
The Sky was a cloudless pale blue, as I stepped onto my deck on a cool August evening. I rested my head against the backrest of the patio chair, and gazed out into the backyard, past the neighbouring homes, and at all that I could …
Every now and again I feel this restlessness, as though there’s this pressure cooking up inside of me that needs to be released. When this happen, journaling doesn’t always feel like enough, and I feel this need to run until my legs protest, and then …
Over the past few months as I’ve struggled to find the words to write, I rediscovered my love for sketching and playing with colours. I began with putting pencil to paper, before moving on to experimenting with pastels. But recently, for my birthday I was given an Apple Pencil to use with my iPad and was encouraged to draw with it. Initially it was difficult to draw from scratch on an iPad, as I still preferred putting pencil to paper, but I found that the Apple Pencil was the perfect tool to use to colour in my sketches, not to mention more satisfying than using pastels. I fell in love with the craft immediately.
The process itself is really neat; you can use separate layers to work on different areas of your sketch without interfering with others, there’s a variety of brushes and inking styles, an infinite number of colours to play and so much more I have yet to still discover. It’s become such a relaxing part of my day, and have easily spent hours simply playing with different techniques and trying out new tools. Now that the weather is warmer, I’m finding myself spending much more time outdoors, hence the creation of new sketches has been slow, but I have no doubt that I’ll get right back into it in no time. It honestly used to frustrate me whenever I’d lose the writing practice that I’d worked so diligently to build, however, it’s often because I begin to place more focus on something else. And I’m realizing now that whatever it is that captures my focus, is often just as important to my well being and happiness as writing has always been.
At the end of the day, writing, sketching, painting and photography are all just a number of ways for me to express my creativity, and I’m just thankful that I have the ability to do so, as well the opportunity to share it with all of you. This is the first photo that I’ve completed, and the original sketch below. As always thank you for your support. I hope you’re all staying safe and keeping healthy.
– Vidhya
Yesterday I read a story about a girl and about her love. Love for a boy who she fell for much too quickly, and love for a new beginning of which brought her more excitement than she’d felt in years. It was a new adventure, a promise of a better future, a story of love much like the others where the doe-eyed main character dives in head-first, believing that this was it, that this was the real deal.
The past couple of weeks have been very much up and down. For the first two weeks I was miserable, and albeit probably just as miserable to be around (bless my family for always being so patient and understanding). I had a very difficult time adjusting to the changes that were unfolding because it felt as though some of the best parts of my life, as well as the parts that I was looking forward to were slowly vanishing. It felt like a domino effect, one thing leading to the other with a succession of change that felt completely beyond my control.
I often find myself in a state of reflection, combing through aspects of my life, contemplating my experiences, teasing out lessons here and there. It used to clear my head, but nowadays, I feel trapped by the clutter, as if pushing against the walls only brings them closer. In desperate attempts to breath, I write. Yet some days, the release of my jaded spirit onto her blank canvas is insufficient to truly feel free. At times like this I find myself flipping through the pages of my past, searching for something I cannot truly explain. I retrace the tales of my youth, allowing my heart to be swallowed up in the emotions of my 23 year old self, and suddenly I feel whole. As though the self love I repeatedly failed to grasp, washed over my soul, so graciously forgiving my lack of responsibility to myself. I flip through these pages and wipe tears, in awe of the woman I used to embody. A woman who sought refuge in her dreams and found life in love and in pain. A woman who chose to not simply persist but thrive, silencing the whispers of doubt that slid in through her ears. A woman whose ambitions surpass even the furthest limits of my present mind, and rekindle the hearth in my belly that struggled for so long just to flicker. A woman who inspires me; whose light swings my course north and reminds me of the woman I have yet to become. As I flip through these pages of my past, I find a woman who fills even the darkest corners of my mind with love and hope, reminding me that this pain I feel is merely a shadow in the immensity of light, nothing but a by product of greatness.
-Vidhya