Rootless

For the first time in my life I no longer have to run away to be able to cope – I can run towards something instead. It is a shift…

For a few days I couldn’t ground myself to write. Rather than punishing myself I try to reflect;

If I am careless with my routines – especially those grounding me and caring for myself – then I am easier swept away by other’s agendas and influence.

In a situation where you restart beyond zero – the vulnerability is genuinely on the outside. The pain from what seems irrelevant small issues goes right through and there is no protection. And feelings are energy. And afterwards it happens I feel like a wet spot on the ground, desperately trying to rise rather than vanishing down, through the earth, into another world down under.

As a child my references for security was places and not people. My mother had a house, which she mismanaged so much I had to live with my grandmother. We kept the house as a summer and weekend house. It was my whole world. Maybe because it was where I could flee from violence and harsh words in to the world of the nature and the animals. I know those forests like my own pocket.

Eventually my mother let someone else sell it. Someone bought it for a bargain price and burned it down…Every time I do a vision board or something similar there is always a house there. A house where people can come and go, but I am always at home there. With my children and my animals.

For the first time in my life I no longer have to run away to be able to cope – I can run towards something instead. It is a shift that I can literally feel through my whole system – not fully established yet, but on its way – I am rootless-ly flying through my own universe like a pulled up plant looking for a place to settle.

Without my parents I suddenly look for my own culture again. The language, the songs, the views and the smells. Is there a home in me I can not deny no matter how far I travelled? Re-connecting.

It is uncomfortable, but I can’t hurry it to be over.

It is uncomfortable, but I can’t go back.

It is uncomfortable, but I can’t stop it.

I am in the air – on my way home…

321 signals to go.

Kind conversations

Why do we expect that because we written something to someone – that they should be ready to respond instantly – and exactly the way we want to? Why is it so hard to let things be and allow some mystery?

I have for periods in my life really focused on changing my language, but it never seems to be really perfect or it can always improve…

Lately I have pondered on the lack of kindness  and gentleness in both the language towards ourselves as well as in the formal communication.

Why do we expect that because we written something to someone – that they should be ready to respond instantly – and exactly the way we want to? Why is it so hard to let things be and allow some mystery?

Do I really have to know the logical answer to why for every single thing?

Universal laws are as logic as it gets right – so why this immense need of sense that we even make it up with our little home made stories to why this or why that?

Is it our ability to create or creative thinking that back fires?  It just kicks off itself regardless what it is about? Or we need to understand what is around us and when we have a story we feel safe? Safer?

I have always had an attraction to the Socrates way of thinking – that all answers are within – and it is all about the conversations we have – or don’t have…

Now I am asking myself how to be more kind and how to use questions as a bridge to heal those gaps of misunderstandings, confusion and possible hurt.

What questions do you use when dealing with opposite opinions or conflicts?

And how do you untangle contradictive conversations with yourself?

Define.Define.Define. Is my new mantra to myself.

332 signals to go. Gently coming home.