The grower of trees, the gardener, the man born to farming, whose hands reach into the ground and sprout, to him the soil is a divine drug. He enters into death yearly, and comes back rejoicing. He has seen the light lie down in the dung heap, and rise again in the corn. His thought passes along the row ends like a mole. What miraculous seed has he swallowed that the unending sentence of his love flows out of his mouth like a vine clinging in the sunlight, and like water descending in the dark?
Sometimes, I forget that I am young.
I forget that I have only been blessed with a quarter of a century.
I forget that mistakes are part of trying.
I forget that fear is motivation, not food for anxiety.
I forget that friendship takes kindness, and openness.
I need to forget those who have made me less kind and less open.
I forget the way a first kiss feels.
I forget to smile sometimes.
I forget what it’s like to be wooed, except by myself.
I forget that it’s better to woo yourself than to expect others to do it for you.
I forget how to give a genuine hug to someone other than my mother and my father. Because I’m fearful others won’t return it.
I forget the sound of my first boyfriend’s voice.
I forget to eat well.
I forget to make eye contact, retail has killed a friendlier version of myself.
I forget not to stand tall and act like I don’t care, because of how I was approached when I cared.
I forget that kindness and courage can go hand in hand.
I forget who I was when I was 19.
I forget what it looks like when someone wants to be your friend.
I forget because I remember that no one can change my life, only I can.
I remember these wonderful women who have looked me in the eye, and told me good, and kind words. Strong words.
I forget that each day is a blessing. That each day is what I make it. That each day belongs to me and me alone.
I’m going to forget forgetting and start remembering.
– via thatkindofwoman
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