making peace with being unpolished

- at last

Jun 11, 2024

I’ve been polishing my whole life.

Shoe shining every little crevice of my internal closet.

Skeletons don’t exist in there if I can put cute outfits on them.

I guess it’s been a subtle form of perfectionism, this polishing thing.

I used to scurry like a timid mouse the moment someone finally (finally) realized that I wasn’t a linear, put-together being.

Perhaps it was a relief, a sigh to the aspect that wanted to be recognized in a vicinity of truth.

I would always ask myself, how do they do it?

Who is they?

Just about anyone imaginable outside of me files under this cabinetry.

How do their links always work magically without a hiccup?

How does their process have a sensation of being seamless?

Are they the seamstress themselves?

I’m purchasing deadstock fabric for this infancy of showing up with subliminal shift.

I’m impatient as hell with this unpolished fit of mine.

Maybe that’s where the toxic dye lies, within identifying with the unpolishing.

Dare I take accountability for needing to subconsciously find evidence everywhere inside me for being unrefined?

Yes, I’m sewing those threads. One by one, slowly making them a customized dress of responsibility.

I’ve been using the concept of being unprocessed in my process to continue confirming my beliefs around simply not being good enough.

The ol’ sad tale of a wounding that miraculously somehow appears everywhere.

That’s the wink of going in, you start to see where it’s been pouring out.

I’ve noticed how utterly fucking bored I’ve been of the polished essence.

For me to be truly polished is for me to deny my humanity.

Isn’t that the depiction of the illusionary realities around us? Both online and IRL?

I crave something outside of me that has the twinkle of fulfillment, but it’s only guiding me to more emptiness. The sensations there can’t compare with being raw.

I would miss out on how delicious that pizza was today if it weren’t for the identity crisis on the way there.

I would miss out on how good it feels to vacuum my rug after spilling chaga all over the floor.

I would forget how much I value this old gray crewneck sweater if it weren’t for the additional stain of hot sauce.

The blasphemy of being unpolished is that you miss out on the spectrum of weather inside your internal atmosphere.

Sure, I’m a California bitch through and through. I would love nothing more than sun and 70 degrees daily.

But I’ve cried on clear skies too.

Making peace with being unpolished has zero to do with the polishing.

It has everything to do with being myself.

I’m making peace with who I am - that’s the real unpolishing.

She’s dusting off her spirit one day at a time. Moment by moment, seeing where I’ve mistaken my rough edges as nothing less than the glistening specs of this human mosaic.

I am truthfully, unpolished.

Nothing more, nothing less.

I am truthfully undressed.

A type of nakedness that has dissolved a degree of embarrassment.

I made a new video on this for you, in my cozy corner of the world, hello hearth.

For those who want to find a new liberation in taking off your identity of being unrefined, messy, and dare I say, unpolished, this one is for you.