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.