Moving

After yesterday, I feel like something inside of me has subtley changed – that I'm moving from a place of resignation to a place of acceptance. 

Quicksand

For so long I fought

Struggling to free myself

From the quicksand,

Only to sink deeper and deeper

To the point

Where I was virtually

Completely immersed.

I would have kept sinking,

But for a strong hand

That reached out

And gripped me firmly.

At first I kept thrashing around

But the hand

Steadied me

Preventing me from going under.

Then something new started to happen

I was being pulled upwards;

I kicked my legs

But instead of helping

It seemed to do the opposite;

It was then that I realised

That struggling felt easier

Than letting go.

The hand had me in a vice like grip

It wasn't going to loosen its hold.

Eventually,

Reluctantly,

I resigned myself to the inevitable;

I stopped kicking and writhing,

My body remained tense

But I began to move.

Before too long

My head was above the sand

And I was breathing in big gulps

Of pure fresh air.

With each breath that filled my lungs

I felt the fuzziness in my head lessen

And the tension began to ebb away

From my rigid body.

As I rose up bit by bit from the quicksand

I realised that in this process of letting go,

Of offering no resistance,

I had finally reached a new place,

A place of acceptance.