Writing used to be my therapy yet somehow I keep forgetting to pick up a new journal. Recovery is a process. One that requires a great deal of self compassion. I have forgiven myself repeatedly for failing to make it to the gym or to put pen to paper to sketch out a piece. Our environments are also quite important for healing. My current one about as stressful as the last. It is almost time to move again, this time back to nomadic life. Each day that I don't live up to the goal but I still make progress is still worth celebrating, still worth feeling good about. Progress is process and kind of a mess. That's life. The ride that doesn't always take the expected turns. The rock we roll up the hill over and over to what seems like no avail. The struggle is real as the internet says these days. I always feel silliest foe making the same miatakes. To have a moment of joy and connection is worth the pain of its loss. To be compassionate and kind to others even if they are disrespectful and judgmental is staying true to my inner compass. I can find peace in knowing that despite any outburst of reaction I am still me and my truth will shine out and my journey will move forward. It is okay that I have not formed a steadfast calm or a firm assertiveness. Those I can develop. What is important is that I am still breathing. I am here. I choose to be here, right now, in this moment.
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