Love Letter to a Sensitive Soul
Let us uncover the collective shadow of human insensitivity you live beneath.
Let us pick up our spades, and like snow, shovel it off you.
Let us cast it off.
Let us shake the penetrating icicles of shadowy shame off your hair and out of your heart.
Allow me to wipe snowdrops of rejection off your eyelashes and assure you that your innate, sensitive vision which notices fine details and may sense energy fields, auras, luminosity and energetic ugliness is okay.
Tenderly, I wipe sleet from your ears and whisper to you that your hearing is okay. You sense subtle sounds, hear guides, receive audible messages, hear the hum of trees and the vibrant silent field of life. All this is true and you are okay.
I hug you joyously and lead you into my kitchen where we smile and drip onto the warm, tiled floor and drink frothy hot chocolate of self-love. I share mine generously, for self-love is completely contagious. The warm liquid melts your tongue, loosens its bindings, and your words, which delicately express your fragile, gentle and astounding awareness, move me to dance.
Together, we allow our bodies to relax and give movement to your pain.
We throw off our soggy mittens and hold hands, warming frozen fingers ‘till they clasp at pens and paint and pencils, giving image and words to our sensitive selves, to your tender soul and its neglect, its suffering, its pain. Pages fly across the floor and sofas and tables, decorating this home in wild imaginings and strident declarations.
As we write and scrawl and create, a right to be sensitive and a need to honour vulnerability emerges from the icy shadowland of collective unconscious and is reclaimed.
I watch as we pause and your gaze lifts from the vibrant page, eyes bright with inner light and inner strength. Silent knowing. I recognise it for I have tasted it, too, when a wise crone led me in from the winter world and defrosted my tongue on the hearth of her heart.
I scramble into the bell tower of my home, swing on the bell cord and watch your words like balloons release into the atmosphere of life. Wildly the bell rings out.
I blow blessings on them as they float past me and wait for a whole symphony of bright multicoloured balloons and a cloud of dark observations to sail on. I am longing to see your words upon this sky. For them to come to rest like dandelion seed puffs in the hearts of other frozen, landlocked, lost and lonely, sensitive souls.
I descend the tower and see: your lips are parted, and I do believe that you are singing.
And someone is knocking at our door.
Answer it, Sensitive One. You have been called.
I believe someone is rattling on the back door as well, and I am running toward it with hands outstretched.
Toward our future.
Snow wind whips me at the threshold and crunches sharply underfoot.
Beloved, bake me a chocolate cake in the fiery oven of your knowing. For I will be back soon and want to taste your insights on my tongue.
Since you’re reading this, it’s likely you’re aware of being, to some extent, a sensitive person. And even if you wish you didn’t have this gift sometimes, you value your sensitivity in your life.
You may also sense how painfully marginalised sensitivity has become in our western world.
One of the most important callings I’m following in my life is the honouring, healing and empowerment of sensitive people.
The prose above was inspired by a sensitivity self-care book I’m writing.
The prose has healing woven into it, in its rhythm, words and essence. It’s an invitation to laugh, cry, be moved, dance, heal and play. My intention is for the words and essence to run over you and dance with you like spring rain.
In sincere passion for who you are,
P.S. If this prose touches you, or you would like to receive more, please leave a comment or send me an email.