We are all born with unique powers.
Bullish optimism. Casual kindness. A dreamy disposition that spins magic from thin air. Gentle persistence. Wild mystery. A silver tongue.
Amid the vampiric hustle of modern life, it’s easy to lose grip on your innate power. It’s intangible, slippery to hold, and often drained away by things that don’t matter.
But if we nourish what’s uniquely ours we’re granted inner vitality. A brightness of eye that attracts kindred spirits, an ability to live expansively in the smallest corners, and a core belief that everything will be ok.
So, I’ve been making lists. Scribbled in my diary at odd hours or hastily thumbed into my notes app. A list of times when I feel drained or lost. Notes to self to turn my care and focus where it matters…
Comparison. The false moon glowing in my palm shows me a myriad of faces and places I could be. A raven-haired huldra crouching in a snowy forest. Cat-eyed and sweaty at an underground gig in New York. A bitten-lipped bookworm with the perfect before-school morning routine. A dizzying swirl of possibilities and missed opportunities. Scrolling these alternative pasts, presents, and futures feels like a struggle upstream. The thrashing of a thousand other struggling bodies boils the water white. Panic churns in my chest. I’m left with a mouthful of silt, empty fists. Further from myself, further from my needs.
Indecision. The pitter-patter of circular thoughts. Settling nowhere, choosing nothing. Pacing the mind’s stuffy attic for hours instead of choosing to open the window and breathe.
Attaching too much importance to writing. Are words, and the writing of them, more important than nestling heart-to-heart for ten more minutes? Are words more welcome than the burble of cuckoo song in spring, more welcome than hot tea by a frost-speckled loch? More sacred than moonlight? I used to think so. I once glorified words and the books that held them. My saints were published authors or anyone who made money from writing. Now I turn my attention to the feelings and experiences that inspired the runes to be carved in the first place.
Head-hopping, heart-swapping. The eldritch magic to spell myself into another’s mind eludes me, yet I still try. They feel lonely bored annoyed. They think I’m selfish resentful afraid. How much harder it is to know your own thoughts, feel your own feelings, when you keep snatching at other people’s.
Resisting. Let go, let go, let go. I am weakened when every ounce of blood bristles at old wounds, changed plans, or a personality that’s stubbornly set (my own included).
Seeking approval. Here I go again, lost in a world so different to my own. The ground turns boggy beneath my feet, I shrink into something digestibly mouse-sized. I seek communion in starless eyes, a breath of fresh air, but am driven underground. My essence is spent on false smiles, false chords, false existences - and the subterfuge it takes to sustain them.
Masculine energy. It was the shield and sword. A mighty oak to sit under, a heady shot of power. It gave, and gave, and gave…until I gave. Knees buckling, heart straining, the wild calling…
Does anything on my list resonate with you? Next week I’ll share the sister list ~ ‘what grants vitality’.
Kate xx
p.s. sorry this week’s dawn letter is late, but it’s probably sunrise somewhere!
For me, it’s indecision. I feel pulled in so many directions, wanting to do it all, but I can’t choose between them. So I end up doing nothing. My thoughts can be exhausting.
Comparison indeed. I struggle in a similar river, with countless imagined futures and pasts rushing through and by me. I often forget the things I have done in the overwhelming inundation of pseudo realities.