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Her name was Celeste

3 min
Art  ✺  Being  ✺  Travel

She left her aura in her wake.

She was a senior at my high school, I was a freshman.

She had long dirty-blond wavy hair that made her look like a mermaid — perfectly unkept.

Celeste was part of the popular kids but not quite like them. She seemed wiser, more down to earth. 

Comfortable in her own skin.

Her given name was perfect. 

Celeste had a lightness to her being and kind eyes.

Best of all, she was quick to dance uninhibitedly on the quad during lunch — barefoot. 

The ease of her ways seemed foreign to me. 

“I would love to not give a fuck like that” I’d think to myself as she danced like a forest fairy whenever there was music. 

Maybe when there wasn’t music — that’s the impression she made. 

Her name was Celeste. 

She showed me what free self-expression and confidence could look and feel like.

At least what I imagined it could look and feel like.

She showed me how not go give a fuck. 

If you want to dance, dance.

Want to feel the grass on your feet? Take the shoes off. 

She left her aura in her wake. 

Her name was Celeste.

Decades later, my energetic field is learning to groove like I remember hers grooving. 

I’m not dancing barefoot yet.

But step by step, I’m sense that I'm headed in the right direction. 

While on holiday in Robe, South Australia, I took these photos of transient designs washed on the shore, just as nature intended.

Art in-situ or rather, art as-is. 

They remind me that I want to be me as-is.

Be like the ocean’s garden and move with the tides, go through the ebbs and flows, and be still with my own beauty wherever and however I may be. 

Dance/create/be with my own beauty. 

Dance/create/be because it feels good. 

Dance/create/be and not care who’s watching. 

Her name was Celeste. 

The shoes are slowly coming off. 

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