There are three things that have always soothed my soul, no matter how my head is rolling or my heart is crooning. The first is the ocean, whose sweet song filled my world as I grew up and rocked me to sleep every night. She is never the same girl twice. I love her wild storms as much as her glittering glassy calm. The second is birds and their signature songs. Winged creatures are my allies and friends. They have long sung the truth from me, sharing the shelter of their trees and inviting me into forests far from the din of the world.

The final and always most effective at settling understanding into me is to write. The old fashioned way, with pen on to paper in a stream that cannot be edited, reframed or made palatable. It archly reveals the whole of the matter, makes no effort to shove my feelings into tiny shiny boxes it likes better and always draws a conclusion. Strong enough to hold all of me, its pages welcome the whole of my heart and listen to every precious word. Being heard without having to bend your truth is this mad life's secret salve.

To this day my diary has not once tried to fix me. It will let me cry or rage or vomit without getting flustered and telling me to stop. It doesn't think I am too much and coos at my growing tip. It doesn't label me or call me names because it don't quake at my barking truth. It never betrays me or flashes between the lines behind my back. Its pages are wide enough to hold me and its sturdy spine never buckles under the weight of my pen when it shakes.

My whole life is held in boxes of these books. One day when those words inform new stories, my truth will let others feel seen and less alone. But for now they serve that divine purpose just for me. As does my next cliff top and my same old ocean and a new generation of wise old birds.

The only difference is that now I don't cycle home smelling like an Impulse cloud and munching half a pack of Tic-Tacs.

Words and pic c. Kerrie Basha 2020