I allow myself to be a weathervane; receive every feeling that greets the shore of me.
SCHUYLERI know I could be an astronomer of this swooning.
More Schuyler Quotes
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In a dream, I’m holding you close and when I wake, I do. How lucky, to want and have.
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I sit on the bare floor, leave my palms unturned, and watch relief pool into one hand, and uncertainty in the next. I will try not to lean more one way or another, but let them hold each other as company.
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Meet me where happiness doesn’t feel like a false spring.
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The world will be loud again. I’ll notice the loneliness less.
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If every feeling comes like a wave, I try to decide what kind of coastline I’ll become.
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Please come here, but not too close.
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Yes, this life is mine, but more often I watch it take place and my hands feel too far away to touch it.
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I’m writing about moving again, and when I write about moving, I really mean beginning. I’m beginning again.
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Change is not a four letter curse word I once believed it to be.
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There will be a time where this hurts less and it will not mean it didn’t matter. It means that in the face of feeling something precious slip in my hands, I will always find a way back to myself.
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I know I could be an astronomer of this swooning.
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We’re in spring and I have learned how to be gentle and sharp; strong bark on budding trees. Hold out your hands. I’ll leave a pink kiss and a pocket knife.
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I’ll craft a haven that that cradles every joy and sorrow, but doesn’t hold them to keep.
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People have been washed away by less. I’ll take every step gently. So often, you can’t tell the rush of a riptide until you’re already at sea.
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I’m choosing to believe things are getting better again. The give and take of joy, remembering a few days of ache does not mean forever.
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How radiant you are, waiting by the window, watching for the sun to grant you more time to dance beneath it. You’ve let yourself dream again. Even if its in bites, even if it’s in a different voice than it used to be.
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I still know the fabric of where I begin and end.
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I’m thinking about how early the spring flower buds rise up from the grass; just barely on winter’s heels. How uncomfortable, how cold the soil must be, still half-frosted, when the roots start to take shape.
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I will still live like a ghost in the mornings; walking, listening, pouring coffee to finish sometime by the afternoon, when I’ve had enough of watching the world and do all I can to live in it.
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For now, I’ll bring what I can to my own four walls. I recognize the purpose, the promise of this: a church is made by its space, by its practices.
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My love lives in my cheeks – gives me away by the first smile. all the lines from years spent laughing, warm with extra freckles in the summer; a poker face that doesn’t keep once my knees fold.
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Your anger, your sorrow, your fear, are okay to feel through, no matter how big it feels now.
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In a dream, my fingertips pulse. I’ll be patient in my blooming. In a dream, I let time pass through open hands.
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Some mornings, I like to live like a secret; wake as quietly as I can, slip out of bed without so much as a wrinkle.
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Hold me here, where I feel less like a stranger to my own laughter. Where it’s easier to believe things happen for a reason or maybe, at least, out of a thousand winding roads my life might take, I will still find one that fits me.
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This does not have to be a hard life to love. There is not enough time to let it stray too far from my hands.
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