Jessica Eve Watkins
3rd October, 2014
There’s a thunderstorm in Atlanta this morning. Lightning through blackness like Gods of war, swiping electricity down into soil. Bombs exploding so sudden, too close to my bed. I’m lying in a dark room, no-one else yet risen, just strewn breathing bodies and electric fans. It’s been a tough few days inside my head, and I’m wearing life acutely. Wearing a weight of gloom, feeling a brick over my heart. Harper has anchored me over and over, spoken truth to me, and I’ve been buoyed by her words, only to sink back down again. I’ve been reiki-ing my chest morning and night, meditating, curling up into child’s pose, and trying to speak gently to myself. We’ve been buying beautiful psychedelic dresses from downtown thrift stores, drinking chai in cosy cafes. I’ve been working so hard to shift this weight and it’s been working harder to torment me. I’m feeling so shaky. I’m flooded with expectations, and feeling powerless to them. Still wanting a barrage of things that I can’t have, can’t know, can’t control. I keep demanding life to hand me answers that it isn’t ready to give me yet.
Some moments I notice a loosening in my chest, and then a return to softness. I slip outside to the porch of this house, glad to be the first one up. It’s early and I wait in my nightshirt, watching the rain pour steadily into gutters, down roads, soak into vegetable beds. I know that everything everywhere is exactly as it should be. Everything is perfect, divine even, and I’m so bored of feeling irritated. I want to return to joy. I write words of love to friends and breathe in my intention deeply.
I don’t need to look any further than Dylan for inspiration. We’re staying with him, a banjo picking gentleman who welcomes in life with open arms. He walks around with tattoo chest and grace, distributes pure heartfelt gratitude and shots of Old Grand-Dad whiskey at the dinner table. He cares so deeply for so much, and we find ourselves magnetised to his kindness and appreciation.
I’ve spent so many years dreaming of making it to the Deep South. The other day Harper told me she sometimes forgets that I’m from a tiny town half a world away, and the chances of me being here at all are so slight. And so do I. So I want to spend the day like a tourist, like it’s my first time here on earth. I’m ready to wake up and appreciate how exciting it is to be in Georgia, to be alive, to be in the present moment.