the poet

which are you—the moon or the sun? i am the moon. i am soft and tired and understand what it takes to be human—uncertain. created by imperfections. yet i am the bright side of the moon, too. i am brilliant and have a smile that lights a room. i fear the dark, so i have found my light. i need space, so i live in it. if you ask me whether i am the moon or the sun i will smile, look you in the eye, and say, “i am the moon.”

who is that girl? the woodland creatures ask the one who steps so lightly, not a fear of the sky-tears freckling her cheeks the one who reaches out her fingertips to brush the drops from the tree limbs  the one with a smile on her lips, a song in her throat and what are the words she sings? they say, stepping closer the ones with a haunting melody that spreads over the forest the ones that rise into the air with her soft voice the ones that give a light to her eyes, a tilt to her lips and why does she dance? they wonder, peering through the underbrush for a glimpse the dance that twists around her, lifting her up the dance that spreads out her arms, winding through her hair and pulsing with breath the dance that has placed a spell on all who see it for she has bewitched us, with her beauty and grace— her swaying arms and gentle voice— she has captured us, yet set us free; brought tears to our eyes, yet a smile to our lips but look, they crow...

she sketched everything. forests, skies, her cat, people on the subway. she drew her secrets and ambitions and fears—she traced away her anxieties and scribbled her dreams to life. flowers. stars. animals. but mostly she painted eyes. all different colours, shapes, feelings. eyes of curious children and understanding adults—wrinkles or without; heavy and blue with tears, or sparkling with laughter and green. she did it so that whenever people looked at what she had created, they would see the stories in those eyes. they would see the loss of a child in the hollow and empty irises, or the memory of a holiday in the mischievous glint from a hazel eye. they would remember. and it would mean something.

the world is hungry for transparency—but we’re too busy trying to find it behind other’s masks that we forget about our own facades

the feeling of spring after winter has to be my favourite thing in the world.  suddenly you can breath again, without feeling the chill of ice in your veins.  your heart begins pounding under your rib cage, aching to be let loose.  everything in you feels filled to the brim, almost overflowing with resonance. you can shed your coat and hat, let that extra burden leave your skin.  it’s a porous, complete, rapturous feeling that i wouldn’t trade for the world. but there’s only one thing that makes it so blissful.  and that’s the part of before . before this feeling, what existed? the winter.  spring can only come after winter. fullness can only come when you’ve been empty. freedom can only come from being released from the cage.

joie de vivre: it’s the most beautiful French phrase, wrapping everything that i can’t explain into a panoply of words that are literally translated to mean ‘joy of living’. that’s what it is to feel this way - to be this full , life this navigable i feel the joy of living, joie de vivre

i’m sure that we’ve all asked ourselves this question at one point in our lives:  if your house was burning down, what belonging would you try and rescue from the flames? and, though it may sound ridiculous, this would be the item i would try and save. it’s a book. an ordinary book (although the cover is beautiful). but it’s still just a book. yet it is the one thing that i am so incredibly proud of. it’s my journal. but not a regular journal - i don’t keep it for a diary. it’s my sky journal; a place for me to write my love-letters to that ineffable heavenly space. my plan is to show you what i keep inside as i continue to fill the pages with poetry, art, watercolour, images, and doodles.

i want to be that certain girl.   you know the one.  the one with an ambiance of confidence and security.  with the glint of untold secrets in her eyes that she’s held for others, because you can trust her with anything.  the one with a smile lurking in the top right corner of her mouth, desperately waiting for the right moment to show itself and brighten someone’s day.  the one not afraid for her status, because it means nothing to her.  the one with a spring in her step, eager to help.  the one who is okay with just being herself, because that’s the best way to put someone at ease.  she is a calm sky, but that’s where her strength lies.  she creates an atmosphere that comforts and builds up.  she knows who she is, and she knows that’s enough. that’s the girl i want to be.

love is dangerous; it is reckless; it takes so much courage.  you risk a broken heart but you have a chance at joy

if you took a group of people to an art museum and stopped in front of a picture of four grey birds and one red bird, most people would identify with the single red bird. why? because we all want to be special. in a world full of grey, we want to be that shining exception that everyone notices.  we all want to be different,  but no one ever is. because the truth is that every one of us thinks we are the red bird.  and if that’s true, then the grey birds are the oddity.  we don’t need to be different to be special.  we just need to be ourselves.

what makes you different than the world?  is it the fire in your belly?  the ice in your veins?  how you change like the tide, coming in and out of your shell?  or how you have been called out, to push past the bar and out of the water? what makes you different?

i love saying that i know something by heart. as though i have become so familiar with it that it is engrained on that most fragile, vulnerable part of me. that i could recite or play or do something with my eyes closed, simply allowing myself to be led from within. i think that ’ s beautiful.

my home doesn’t matter to you.  not to make you seem rude, but it honestly doesn’t.  because you don’t live there.  you haven’t seen my mother’s smile and my dog’s laughing tongue.  you haven’t jumped into our freezing pool on a cold September day, just for the thrill.  you haven’t sat on our swing at the back of our yard and watched the sun set.  you haven’t woken up in my bed early in the morning to the sound of rain falling.  you haven’t ran smiling up our driveway with a letter clutched in your hand.  and none of this matters to you -  they’re just my memories.  and that’s okay

which are you—the night or the day?  i am both.  i am the night because i need darkness. i need to feel the empty space around me and fill my soul.  yet i am the day because i need light. i need the sun to shine on my face and warm my heart.  i need to be alone, but i need to be surrounded.  i need silence, but i need to hear the sounds of life.  i need the stars, but i need the blue sky.  if you ask me whether i am the night or the day i will smile, look you in the eye, and say, “i am both.”  for i am a paradox of light and dark, loud and quiet, extraverted and introverted.  and i’m okay with that.

humans aren’t afraid of heights— we’re afraid of falling from it. we’re not afraid of sidewalks— we’re afraid of falling to it. we’re not afraid of love— we’re afraid of falling for it.

“what are you going to be today?” i would ask her. i asked her every night, and the answer was always the same, but i needed to hear it from her again. she would glance at me expectantly, hope and uncertainty and trust all mixed together in her hazel eyes. she would pull her shirt sleeves down to hide her fingers, prop her chin on her hands. she would say, “brave. today i will be brave.”

she was made of broadway lyrics, movie marathons, and old book hoards—a whirlwind of inky fingers and summer freckles.  love:  -exploring different cultures -musicals -intelligent conversations -taking snapshots of ordinary things -creating stories from my imagination -deep souls -the story of icarus -art museums -van gogh gang -greek myths -filmmaking -poems - notebooks loath: -pessimists and close-minded people -the in-between of winter and spring -labels -cloudy night when you can’t see the stars -hotel showers infp | libra | ambivert | hipsta bookworm | canadian | poet these are my labels. these are what i try to disprove. these are what i am, and what i can’t stand to be. these make me stuck, make me shake a fist and say, “don’t put me in a box, i’m different.”  i’m autumn. ☾ ☾ ☾ if you were a doctor you could take a glance and determine facts about me. things like: brown hair mostly has her m...