THE INKWELL SOUL

Author: Elizabeth

  • The Courage to Live (Even When It Hurts)

    There’s a whisper we often tell ourselves, a comforting lie that keeps us tethered to the familiar, even if it’s not serving us. “I’ll do it when I feel better. I’ll step out when the anxiety fades. I’ll chase that adventure once the sadness lifts.” It’s a promise we make to ourselves, a deferred dream, often rooted in the very human desire to avoid discomfort.

    But what if that promise is actually a trap?

    I read a quote today that hit me like a splash of cold, clear water: “Hard truth: If you wait until you feel ‘better’ to start living, you might be waiting forever. Go live your life. Do it sad. Do it anxious. Do it uncertain. Because healing doesn’t always come before the experience. Sometimes, the experience is what heals you.”

    That last line. Sometimes, the experience is what heals you. It resonates so deeply, especially when the urge to retreat feels overwhelmingly strong. We tell ourselves we’re “not ready” – not ready for the vulnerability of new romance, not ready for the exhilarating unknown of a grand adventure, not ready for the awkwardness of trying something entirely new. And if we keep saying “not ready” where does that leave us? Stuck. Standing still. Watching life pass us by from the sidelines, waiting for a feeling that may never arrive on it’s own.

    The truth is, life doesn’t pause for our emotional readiness. Healing isn’t a prerequisite for living; it’s often a consequence of it. It’s in the messy, imperfect moments of putting ourselves out there – the nervous first date, the solo trip taken with a knot in your stomach, the awkward attempt at a new hobby – that transformation truly begins. It’s in facing those fears, however small, that we discover resilience we didn’t know we possessed.

    So, perhaps it’s time to re-frame “ready”. Maybe being ready isn’t about feeling perfectly calm, perfectly confident, or perfectly healed. Maybe being ready is simply deciding to show up, fully and imperfectly, in the messy beautiful unfolding of life. To do it scared. To do it with shaky hands and a pounding heart. Because the greatest healing might just be waiting for us on the other side of that leap.

  • My Peace, My Power

    There’s a profound strength that blossoms when you finally shed the old skin of fear. For too long, the specters of rejection and abandonment loomed, dictating choices and whispering doubts. But those days are gone. The truth I’ve embraced is that it’s dangerous to be healed – dangerous in the most liberating way possible. It means no longer tolerating what dims my light, no longer shrinking to fit someone else’s expectations.

    My boundaries aren’t walls; they are guardians. They protect the precious inner sanctuary I’ve so painstakingly built. This isn’t about pushing people away; it’s about honoring myself. I now understand, with unwavering certainty, that I have complete control over my own peace. It’s not a gift granted by others, nor something that can be taken away. It’s an internal wellspring, carefully cultivated.

    This clarity has redefined my relationships. My solitude isn’t a void to be filled, but a cherished space where my peace thrives. So, if you wish to enter my world, know this: your presence has to be better than my solitude. My peace isn’t competing with another person for your attention or affection. It is, in fact, your competition. It’s the standard. It’s the quiet strength that now governs my choices, ensuring that every connection I forge truly adds to the rich tapestry of my tranquil life.

  • My Three-Page Man-ifesto: Universe, You’ve Been Served

    Here I am, 53 years young and back in the dating rodeo. Widowhood, and divorced – let’s just say my heart’s been through the wringer. But you know what? I’ve learned a thing or two. Mostly, I’ve learned that this time around, I’m not settling for luke-warm coffee and half-hearted efforts. Nope. This next chapter? It’s gotta be filled with genuine happiness.

    So, I dove headfirst into this whole manifesting thing, inspired by Delores Cannon. She says, if it doesn’t hurt anyone else, the universe is your oyster. Well, my oyster is apparently three college-ruled pages long and detailing the man I want to walk into my life. I left NOTHING out. Every quirk, every must-have.

    And let me tell you, this fella I’ve conjured up in my mind? He’s something else. Not some polished city slicker, mind you. Think more… strong leather and calloused hands. He’s the kind of man who knows his way around a toolbox and probably owns a flannel, plaid and t-shirt collection that could rival a small store. There’s a quiet strength about him, a man who’s comfortable in his own skin, rumbling laugh that makes you feel grounded, and his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles – a genuine, honest smile.

    He appreciates the simple things – a good cup of coffee in the morning, the quiet of nature, a well-worn book. He’s not afraid of hard work, and there’s a steadiness to him that just feels… right. He’s smart, witty and intelligent. He’s the kind of man who can build a fire in the pouring rain and still manage to say something that makes me snort-laugh. And yes, I even detailed his handshake – firm, warm, like coming home.

    Following Delores’s instructions, I’m living as if he’s already here. I catch myself smiling at an empty chair, imagining him sitting there, telling me about his day. I feel the warmth of his hand in mine when I’m out for a walk. It’s almost like he’s a phantom limb, a comforting presence just out of reach.

    Now, the burning question, the one that makes me glance at every pickup truck that rumbles down the road: when does this rugged, flannel-clad dream boat show up on my doorstep?

    Honestly, if the universe had a delivery schedule, I’d have circled the date on my calendar with a big, glittery heart. But it doesn’t work that way, does it? It’s more like waiting for that perfectly aged whiskey – it takes time, and you just have to trust the process.

    So, while my mental image of this man is so vivid I could probably pick him out in a crowd of lumberjacks, I’m also living my life. I’m enjoying my friends, my family, my hobbies, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing I’m worth a love that feels solid and true.

    This amazing man I’ve manifested? He’s out there. The universe has my detailed blueprint. Now, it’s just a matter of time. And while I wait, I’ll keep my porch light on, just in case he happens to have a slightly unreliable GPS and ends up in HooVille a little sooner than expected. A woman deserves to be happy, especially a woman who knows exactly what kind of happiness she’s manifesting – right down to the scent of his aftershave and the comfortable silence they share while watching the sunset. Bring it on, universe. I’m ready.

  • My Journey to Peace: Rewiring My Life

    Life has a way of presenting us with detours, some unexpected and challenging. For me, the journey truly began with cancer, a word that reshaped my world and forced me to confront not just my physical health, but every corner of my being. It was an all-encompassing upheaval, a moment that demanded a complete re-evaluation of my life.

    In the aftermath, I knew I couldn’t go back to who I was. I embarked on a profound journey of change, starting with my attitude towards life itself. I began to consciously shift my perspective, even towards those I struggled to get along with. More importantly, I started to heal my feelings about myself, mending the fractured pieces left behind by illness. It’s been an all-around adjustment, a constant effort to recalibrate my internal compass.

    This journey has been about discovering peace and tranquility. I’m learning the profound power of being present, of truly being in the moment, and actively seeking ways to lower the stresses that once dominated my days. It hasn’t been easy, but the results are undeniable.

    The emotional, mental, and even physical changes are starting to blossom in my life. It’s like my very being is undergoing a powerful rewiring. I’m seeing the tangible results of this internal work, and it’s incredibly validating.

    Of course, the old habits don’t vanish overnight. I still have moments where I find myself slipping back, where old patterns of thought or reaction try to resurface. But the most significant shift is this: I catch myself now, and much sooner than I ever used to. That awareness is my greatest tool. I understand now, with crystal clarity, that my thoughts control my feelings, which in turn control my behavior. This understanding has been a revelation.

    My daily striving is to keep my vibration high, to ensure my thoughts are consistently surrounded by love and light. It’s a conscious choice, a commitment to nurturing the profound transformation that is unfolding within me. This journey isn’t just about recovering; its about becoming more whole, more peaceful, and more aligned with the person I am meant to be.

  • A Poem: Unarmored

    Don’t hold back, love, let me catch you now. Let yourself be seen, the messy, real somehow. No need to armor up, no need to brace and hold, just open up your heart, let your true story unfold.

    You don’t need to pretend that everything’s alright. No need to fake a smile, or stand alone in the night. Just ask me to hold you, when the shadows start to creep. That’s strength in its purest form, secrets you can’t keep.

    I’m not interested in the version, polished and so fine. I want the entire truth, every thought that’s truly thine. Being caught, my darling, is the bravest thing you’ll do. And letting me see your fall? That’s everything, through and through.

  • The Chipped Teacup

    The chipped teacup sat on the windowsill, catching the dawn. Not a fine china, nor a masterfully crafted ceramic, just a simple, everyday thing, its glaze faded, a hairline crack snaking down its side. It held no grand purpose, no exquisite beauty. It simply held the morning light.

    Elhani, like the teacup, felt a quiet, persistent ordinariness. She wasn’t a virtuoso, a prodigy, a star. She didn’t paint masterpieces, compose symphonies, or build empires. Her garden, a small patch of unruly wildflowers, was a testament to her lack of structured ambition. The weeds grew alongside the daisies, and the bees buzzed indiscriminately.

    One evening, under a sky painted in hues of bruised purple and soft orange, Elhani sat on her porch swing, the chipped teacup resting on the warm wooden arm. A firefly, a tiny spark of light, danced in the twilight.

    “I feel…unremarkable,” she whispered to the firefly, her voice a soft sigh carried on the evening breeze.

    The firefly, of course, did not reply. It simply flickered, its light a tiny, pulsing beacon in the vast darkness. But Elhani watched it, its fragile glow, its brief, ephemeral dance.

    She thought of the wildflowers, their chaotic beauty, their resilience in the face of neglect. She thought of the chipped teacup, its simple function, its quiet presence in the morning light. She thought of the firefly, it fleeting, yet significant, spark.

    ‘Isn’t it okay to not be great at anything?’ The thought echoed in her mind, a quiet question.

    She looked at her hands, calloused from gardening, stained with earth. They weren’t hands that sculpted marble or played concertos. They were hands that held seeds, that pulled weeds, that stirred tea.

    ‘Isn’t it okay to just be who you are?’

    She closed her eyes, and the sounds of the evening filled her ears: the crickets chirping, the wind rustling through the leaves, the distant hum of a car. It was a symphony of ordinary life, a quiet celebration of the everyday.

    She opened her eyes, and the firefly, still dancing, seemed to wink at her. The chipped teacup, bathed in the soft glow of the porch light, seemed to hold a quiet understanding.

    Elhani smiled, she didn’t need to be a masterpiece. She didn’t need to leave a grand legacy. She was part of the tapestry, a thread woven into the fabric of the ordinary, the beautiful, the simple.

    She was the chipped teacup, holding the morning light. She was the wildflower, growing wild and free. She was the firefly, a tiny spark of light int he vast darkness: And that, she realized, was enough.

  • Memorial Day

    The air hangs heavy with the unspoken stories of a thousand Memorial Weekends, each one etched with the profound weight of sacrifice. For me, a daughter of a Veteran, the granddaughter of a Veteran, and a Daughter of the American Revolution, this weekend is a pilgrimage of the heart. It’s a time when the roots of my family tree, watered by generations of courage, stretch deeper into the hallowed ground of memory.

    I see them, these brave men and women, kissing their loved ones goodbye – a final touch, a whispered promise, before stepping into the unknown. The low pay, the stark conditions, the grueling hours of training – none of it deterred them. They faced down their own fears, not because they were fearless, but because they understood a truth more profound than personal safety: the delicate tapestry of freedom must be defended, thread by precious thread.

    When the mournful strain of “Taps” pierce the silence, and the rifle volleys echo across fields of white crosses, a chill runs through me. It’s heartbreaking, yes, to imagine their final moments, the dreams unfulfilled, the lives cut short. Yet, there’s also a strange comfort, a ghostly embrace from those who will never be forgotten. Their bravery, their unwavering commitment to a nation that sometimes seems to forget the cost of liberty, humbles me.

    And I remember too, the Veterans who came home, carrying the silent weight of their experiences. They lived, but a part of them remained on distant battlefields, forever intertwined with the comrades they lost. My father, my grandfather, and so many others, carried echoes of “Taps” in their own hearts long after the guns fell silent. They never forgot the faces of friends and family who fought alongside them, the ones who didn’t come back. Their memories were a constant, quiet tribute to the fallen, a testament to the bonds forged in the crucible of war. They were courageous, undeniably so, and in their sacrifice, both on the field and in the quiet strength of their years, they gifted us the very air we breathe.

    This Memorial Weekend, let us not just remember, but truly honor them. Let us carry their stories in our hearts, not just as history, but as a living testament to the ultimate act of love for one’s country, for those who made the ultimate sacrifice and for those who carried the weight of that sacrifice for a lifetime.

  • The Traveler: A Poem

    This one is dedicated to the time traveler… may you find your peace.

    A strange detachment settled, light and deep,
    After the letting go, the endless weep.
    The old connections, fraying, snapped, and fell,
    And in that quiet, new perceptions swell.
    Now, when I meet a soul, a curious shift,
    I feel a time traveler, blessed with a rare gift.
    Stepping into moments, brief and undefined,
    With all the past and future left behind.

    Each face a fleeting glimpse, a whispered age,
    A character upon life’s endless stage.
    I see their hopes, their laughter, and their stride,
    As if from centuries, I’ve stepped aside.
    A momentary presence, here and then gone,
    Observing life’s procession, from dusk til dawn.
    A gentle current, through the ages I roam,
    No longer rooted, nor truly far from home.

    Now when I walk, the crowd’s of fleeting show,
    A timeless journey, watching currents flow.
    Each face, a story, briefly intersects,
    A curious glance, the moment it reflects.
    I sip the laughter, touch the casual hand,
    A transient guest within a foreign land.
    Observing nuance, learning silent cues,
    The human drama, with its vibrant hues.

    But there’s a distance, finely, keenly honed,
    A quiet readiness, perfectly owned.
    No rooted branch, no deep, entwining vine,
    Just quick detachment, effortlessly mine.
    I am the traveler, seeing all unfold,
    A story witnessed, gracefully untold.
    An observer always, poised and ever free,
    Never quite of the group, just watching, me.

  • The Woman I’ve Become

    The air crackled with unspoken energy, a silent challenge hanging between us. He thought he was clever, a master of calculated moves and veiled intentions. But I saw through the smoke and mirrors, the practiced charm that masked a hollow core. This wasn’t a game I was willing to play.

    “She’s not the type of woman you play games with,” the words echoed in my mind, a quiet affirmation. I had built walls around my heart, not out of bitterness, but out of self-preservation. I had learned the hard way that vulnerability in the wrong hands was a weapon, a tool to be used and discarded.

    He thought my composure was an invitation, a puzzle to be solved. He didn’t understand that my stillness was my strength, my silence a shield. I thrived on stability, on the solid ground of truth and authenticity. His world of shifting sands and fleeting emotions held no appeal.

    “If you want her, you need to be smarter than that,” the internal voice whispered. I had seen his kind before – men who chased the thrill of the chase, the ego boost of conquest. But I wasn’t a prize to be won. I was a force to be reckoned with.

    He wanted access to my light, the positive energy that radiated from within. But that radiance wasn’t a gift to be bestowed on just anyone. It was earned, nurtured, and fiercely protected. My inner circle was small, populated only by those who valued truth as much as I did.

    “If you want her, you have to do things you’ve never done before.” The gauntlet was thrown, not by him, but by the quiet voice within. It wasn’t about grand gestures or superficial changes. It was about genuine growth, about shedding the layers of pretense and embracing vulnerability. It was bout becoming a man worthy of the space he sought to occupy in my life.

    The thought of ‘luck’ flickered through my mind. It wasn’t luck that determined whether someone gained access to my world. It was consistency, the unwavering commitment to growth and honesty. I was a garden that required constant tending, not a fleeting amusement.

    “She’ll turn your weakness into strengths.” The words resonated with a deep truth. I had the capacity to nurture, to inspire, to ignite the dormant potential within another. But I wouldn’t waste my energy on a barren landscape. He had to bring something to the table, a willingness to learn, to evolve, to become a better version of himself.

    “Her love will enable you to move mountains.” My love was a force, a catalyst for transformation. But it wasn’t freely given. It was a treasure to be earned, a sacred fire to be tended with care.

    “Her integrity doesn’t allow just anyone to get close.” I knew my worth. I understood the power I wielded, the depth of my capacity to love and nurture. But that power was reserved for those who respected it, who understood that intimacy wasn’t a game but a sacred exchange.

    He was still circling, trying to decipher the enigma he thought I was. He didn’t realize that I wasn’t a puzzle to be solved, but a mirror reflecting back his own inadequacies. My walls weren’t impenetrable barriers, but filters, discerning those who were genuine from those who were merely playing a role.

    And as he continued his dance of calculated moves and veiled intentions, I simply smiled, a Mona Lisa smile that held both mystery and unwavering self-possession. I didn’t need to play this game. I was playing my own. And the rules were simple: Truth. Integrity. Growth. Anything less was simply not worth my time. He could chase his fleeting thrills and empty victories. I was waiting for a man who understood that the greatest adventure wasn’t the conquest, but the journey of building something real, something lasting. And until he was ready to embark on that journey, my walls would remain standing. Not as a challenge, but as a testament to the woman I had become.

  • For In Your Eyes