"And I'm anxious to relieve my mind of desperate thoughts"
I didn't mean to write this.
But I want to, [and feel I have to] honor you. Anyone who's taken the time to speak with me about things that matter, anyone who's written me a letter telling me how what I share and do makes them feel. Anyone who is not afraid to tell me. "This is what I see, this is what you stirred in me"
Because it will never stop surprising me. I will never stop getting that short butterfly-like feeling in my stomach when I see a note saying "Thank you".
It's not why I write these things. I lost the desire for fame very quickly. I just... write these things, as a call. Not to anyone in particular, just to those who can relate-- or might understand. Call it whatever you see to fit it. It's a call. A question.
If you've been weathered, beaten, overwhelmed... if you wear scars on your legs and wrists, if you've been sexually abused, isolated, screaming inside, violated, void of identity, barely hanging on--
if you're bruised and a bit broken, nonetheless still standing, raise your hand.
You're in good company. A lot of us are the same.
It seems to be that we'll always understand in the future.
There's so much that I don't understand about my journey, and it weighs down on me somedays.
But courage is a burn I wear proudly on the side of my face, and "Blessed" is what I pray my friends to be; I reserve a secret tenderness the center of my palm [for them].
But when it comes to myself, I feel my sight is unfair.
I've been told I'm either too hard on myself, or I fear I'm not hard enough. But I know no other way. I know the improper reactions I exude, the hidden flesh and primal selfishness that leaks form inside, and of the many areas I need to work on; but I felt a little in the dark when it comes to a fair and honest picture of wholeness of who I am, and who I wish to become.
But God had his hand on this, as well as
And they have told me what they've seen. The good and the bad, and the possible. [Thank you for that]
Because the harshness has made me who I am. Perhaps it is not correct [I was told I must love myself], and it is not for everyone. Some thrive with kindness or with art, or with romance and community, or in solitude, silence and hunger. This harshness towards myself is not a pursuit to appear 'wounded' or philosophical--- It's just an honest pursuit. It's a way for me. A way for me to get up and shake the dust. There was a long season where 'getting up' was a solo task.
And I am thankful for that time--- because I now practice the action that is "To Cherish".
I know so many of us write "Who am I" in our most honest penmanship; and something in us makes us worthy of that question.
On the days we lash out and cry, curse our traits and bones, speak words of self-condemnation-- we are worthy. [And we must first realize it, and then claim it]
On the days we get up from our beds, [repenting to our spirit for words earlier said], honor our struggles, and walk onwards-- we are worthy. [And we must continue to believe it]
But it's hard. We've confused humility with self-depreciation, and it still has a root in the back of our minds.
God, sometimes you even forget how to be happy.
It's like you have to learn how to gain strength in a limb that was once broken or lost. You have to just move it and work with it and silence judgment for a season.
But I think I can do it, I think I can run on these legs again.
It's been laughably hard sometimes.. for me to believe the voice that comes out of the clearer-- whispering 'yours.. a gift'. Saying that this flame that was placed [in your center] belongs to you, that this verse is yours. That the right to re-take, re-write, reclaim a history and courage skipped and stolen, is etched in blood; as is my salvation.
When so many times,
I've lashed out and ran, cursed behind my teeth.. stayed in bed because I could not take it. Loathed myself. When we run like that... sink like that, you lose pieces of yourself in the flood.
But that's why the word 'Restoration' exists.
Maybe I am half-fledged. But my eyes are sharper, my senses deeper, and my ears now hear the sounds and tones that are not of the surface. You now sense the emotions in another, you now feel compelled to do things you would not have thought of before.
You know, some people have everything happen to them. Every event and loss and failure told them "no", but when I see them alive today, or read about them in history-- it makes me smile through my eyes. Because they did it, they retook the story. They rewrote the curse into a purpose. I think there are a few of us who might do that too, if we keep going.
We may fall astray, and on that strayed path
comes a defeat,
but with that defeat comes
a new declaration. A testament of growth.
Take inventory of the things inside you, the relationships, your standards and scars, the progress, your passions; Then think of someone who means the world to you. They are one witness [and one is enough] that says you've not been ruined by the fire.
Honor them by believing you are worthy. Then take that honor further by walking in that worthiness. And then by helping others feel the same.
It is not what we do that makes us become. Not [just] that.
It might be something we rather choose, vow inside ourselves--- and then something inside us, helps us fulfill it.
Take your pick of a few. I've chosen mine.
The Lord promises that those who shed tears in the name of sowing, in the name of sacrifice--- will reap every drop in joy. I hope you stay, continue the journey far enough to see that happen. There's no progress without struggle. It doesn't feel like it at the time, but it has meaning.
I've been gathering and storing words. In boxes, notebooks, under pillows and my heart. I print them out and cut them out and fold them in special ways. It is somewhat meager, and paper is so fragile to some-- but I realize that I have to find a way to touch the things that have touched me. I know my hands well, I've used them a lot, I've blessed with them and sinned with them. They've brought me friends, they've brought me provision and they've turned my ideas into being--- and so that may be why I make it so I can hold words in my hands. Forget garments and gold. Give me a large, old, wooden box full of words from people
who mean the world to me.
People who I think of daily, and with those thoughts-- comes the cheer:
I wish you victory.