Your story matters

You may not realise it, but right now you are playing an important part in the history of the world and human civilisation itself. That means that your life, whatever is going on in it, is powerful and worth something. Your experience is irreplaceable. You matter.

You do not need to be doing anything grand or great. Life is mostly made up of the fine details and small print * for it is this that generates the bigger, seemingly more impactful  or meaningful news and events. Perhaps simply getting through the week and checking off a small amount on your to-do list is enough at the moment. And that is okay.

Recently my mental health has affected me so badly that I am unable to even leave the house. In fact, some days I can hardly move at all. I am reduced to a shuddering torso on my bedroom floor, stricken by overwhelming anxiety and fear. This is neither grand nor great. At times like this I certainly don’t feel like I matter, and the thought of my place in the universe makes me feel even more confused and alone.

However, I also accept that this is only a tiny snippet of what constitutes me and my experience of life. It is one nanosecond of a scene in a very long film. The bigger picture will reveal itself only when it is ready, given time to develop, evolve and grow. The trick is to focus on the minutes and hours, and then the months and years will take care of themselves.

Your own story is yours to tell. Each tiny detail makes it unique. So, whatever happens -and there is sure to be a great deal of adversity and mundanity along with the wonderful and profound- remember that you count. In the history of this earth, there can never be another you quite like you. So carry on writing your script, keep your eye on the details, and see where you lead yourself.


*and even smaller print


Looking at Sky

My mind is stretched along horizons
so many, sewn together
as one marbled colour – an eternity
unremitting and irresolvable
bearing down and up on us
(silly little earthlings
lost children, their toys
searching-out eyes
and murderous know-nothings).
There are only clouds up there
I have searched among them
to no avail – no almighty father
could I find, nor the precious
soft strands of hair
of my humming-song mother.
In their wuthering heights I try
to lay down and rest
like a weary secret
soundless and needing sleep
before I retire; go to waste
turn grey.
Just odd bags in a dustbin
full of who-knows-what
and who-really-cares, anyway.