voice being drawn out
aware of her windy reality.
(found poetry in my art journal)
A faint orange glows through the fog and gives me hope.
My life chaotic at best; at worst, a failure.
I dream big dreams of light cast into dark. Of artist-birthed life making its way into a hurting world. Of hearts healed. Of beauty and spirit-wind wrapped holy together, bringing truth that frees instead of binds.
And then I live.
Isolated, unfree myself. Wrapped wholly with the whims of beloveds and their bedlam. Unseen, unheard because I do not speak. I long to bring life, bravery. I live fearful, greedy for solitude, shamebound.
They say the area of your struggle is inseparably woven with your calling.
If I was having coffee with you and these words poured out of you, I would be so drawn to offer grace, rest. To make sure you knew you don’t have to meet anybody’s expectations (yours included). That, yes, you have this amazing calling to offer light and life and beauty and freedom and healing. But the failing is the lie.
All the trying, beating up the beauty because it’s not quite beautiful enough.
The fighting with life instead of living it.
And most of all, I’d want you to know he’s right there.
In the afternoons with a three-year-old anarchist whose heart you desperately want to guard in ways yours never was.
In the hundreds of minutes you feed and lullaby your baby, hoping for a soul that knows it’s worth rescuing.
In the confusion of intimacy.
In the tension between beauty-longings and real-life mess.
Even when you haven’t given him the time you “should”. There is no condemning coming from his heart, so if you’re sensing damnation-emotion, you gotta fight, albeit an unseen enemy. One that pretends he’s not there so you think it’s your own voice, or even that of the life-way-truth. It’s not. He may even sound like people you love. He likes to put flesh-and-blood to his lies like that. But no matter what, it’s not true.
You are enough.
Your heart is worth fighting for, just like those little boys’.
And those women you dream freedom for.
He bled to rescue your heart, so you simply can’t give it back over to the liar. To the hater of your aliveness.
it might look like the easy way out – to wallow, to believe in your worthlessness. Because then it doesn’t matter so much that your days don’t look like your dreams. But think of the alive-in-your-purpose days. Isn’t even that handful worth the fight?
Well, isn’t it?
And I am surprised to hear my own heart answering yes. Oh, yes.