I am writing this on a bench at the river walk. I intended my visit to be for journaling and reading poetry. I realized I forgot a writing utensil. Luckily, there was a green crayon, perfectly perched upon a rock. Serendipity.
Today, I have taken great care of myself. I can feel a plethora of love for my being, although I don’t know where it was resting. Sometimes, I think I am borderline obsessed with myself. Then again, why not? I spend the majority of my time with me, anyhow. It’s the better side of it to be on, I think.
Other days, I do not show up for myself—no explanation needed. I become too involved with myself in terms of anxiety, over-thinking, and self-destruction. Don’t I know the trees stand firm and still connect to all other being?
Why am I not aggressively pursuing the incredible life I know I am capable and deserving of having?
In my best life, I am the love of my life. I am my best friend, and I treat myself as such. I care for myself alike to the ways of anyone I have ever loved. I am patient and understanding in my own faults. I am forgiving and compassionate. Not only for others, but also for myself. I show up with unconditional love, and act as a being of such.
When you behave from a place of wild love, you give others permission to do so. Besides, it is never too late to be exactly who you want to be in this achingly, beautiful life.
