Adult language ahead

Woke up Monday to this psycho bitch who wanted to eat bread for every meal and dragged me to all these crazily-irritating places populated by only annoying faces.

She shows up sometimes, all full of fear, anger and melancholy. She will shout at others, but the ugliest script of abuse is saved for the mirror. It’s best to laugh at her crazy with compassion, as if to an ignorant child who knows no better. It’s best to acknowledge all the whimsy and whisper her simple reminders.

I love her.

Woke up Tuesday to a slow and sexy raw woman.

Good morning stretch with a yawn of insouciant satisfaction, spooning the covers into a loose bunch on the flexion to fetal. Her gentle room fills up with sun-exposed dust particles. She notices, basking in the space that’s been created. Pants-free legs stumble towards fresh coffee held in her most adored pottery mug. Skin soft against a sweater sizes too big as sweet jazz vibrates all around.

Days with this one are delicate and quiet but the moments are so loud, words suddenly not the most appropriate form of communication. Everything moves slow around her and there is time to feel it all. Intimacy with the world felt with every breath and sensations alert to every touch or movement. Slow and yummy. She adores the world and the world adores her, messy hair and all.

I love her, she makes the most epic banana pancakes.

Woke up Wednesday to a vulnerable woman.

She felt exposed and inexplicably emotional. Most people are freaked out but the idea of her, turn their heads scared. There is only one thing she really needed: to be seen. “Slow down and listen,” she informs, as a lingering hologram of some tightly-gripped memory comes up and out. She causes havoc if I don’t acknowledge her; she fucking hates being ignored. Through hiccup-cry tears, I believe her words: “these are times of pure growth,” spoken with the diction you don’t dare argue with.

She shakes me up and reminds me what strength really is.

I love her.

Woke up Thursday to a quirky flower child.

Play-slaps me awake before the sun has even kissed the east horizon, bed jostled, duvet ripped swiftly off my disoriented body. Life minutes are her currency, not to be wasted frittering around. Boy, I missed her. She knows life. We move and dance and mess around. She sings and tickles guitars.

She finds friends everywhere, picking them up in the strangest nooks; a member of the worldwide club of kids who are mad to live. Our adventures deliciously unplanned yet perfectly mapped, each moment flowing effortlessly into the next. There is magic and mystery around every corner.

I love her.

Woke up Friday to a fierce and fearless woman who remembers truth and struts it with humble confidence.

She knows and respects herself, mind awash with gratitude and kind thoughts that shine from her face like sunbeams. Beauty guides and leads and is. There is direction and purpose in her movements and others take note. There is nothing to prove, there is only truth. She has a firm, unattached grasp of control over everything, weaving dreams as they simultaneously unravel around her. The limit does not exist. Clear.

I love her.

Woke up Saturday to an insecure, narcissistic snob, served up with a side of jealous insanity.

First thing she did was check Facebook to see if anyone liked her latest post—they didn’t. Spends too much time fretting about others thoughts on what she’s doing to actually do anything. She’s a serious bore. Click, Click, Scroll, Scroll. I think maybe this one has forgotten what real life truly is and what is to be alive, let alone what a tree looks like.

We talk and the outwardly-appearing snob explains her thoughts of self-doubt and unworthiness. A break is taken for pimple popping, and afterwards she tries to convince me she is not beautiful. She is so quick to detail all the things stopping her from thriving—what needs to change for there to be joy. Delusional thoughts of others’ inflated importance/power/awesomeness over her own are copious; every other woman more beautiful, smart, and deserving.

As the day’s hours dwindle, she starts to remember the lesson we have already learned time and time again. She remembers that she only looks for approval from others when there is work to do on accepting herself. I relearn that acceptance and worth can not be gifted from any place outside, so I stop feeling sorry for myself and wake up.

Seriously powerful teacher this one. I love her.

Woke up Sunday to an introverted observer.

She looks at the world with eyes of curious inspection; the people and objects and scenes of her immediate environment entwine for the most magical live theatre production. She is a witness to the universe’s mash-up with a tendency to be mind-heavy on the hows and whys of it all. Some think she’s strange for the number of hours she logs alone in various cafes and public spots, but I know she needs this time to process. She likes to entertain an inner dialogue and marvel on what is often cast aside as trivial happenstance. She is confusing and complex.

I love her.

She is a Goddess morphing between multiple forms and I am learning to love each one up with equal veracity. Divinely feminine and diverse. Playing home to it all. These bits are the whole. I refuse definitive definitions because there is no one form, and the attempt to appear to or fit into just one leads to absolute lunacy.

I choose transparency and to be seen for what these moments bring. I am in a constant state of evolution and flux.

I am unapologetically woman.

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Apprentice Editor: Hannah Harris/Editor: Catherine Monkman

Photo: Flickr/Flickr