Several weeks ago, I
found this quote by Haifz titled "It Felt Love:"
"How
did the rose
ever open its heart
and give this world
all its
beauty?
It felt the
encouragement of light
against its being.
Otherwise
we all remain
too
frightened."
I wrote it down and
kept it laying around so I would stumble across it occasionally. I tend to
do this when I find words I think might be important for me to remember.
*****
I have found myself
without words for the past two weeks.
For a week, that was literal -- laryngitis set in hardcore and very
nearly drove me crazy. More than that,
though, I have been unable to write. I
have 3 paragraphs written, from different times, all trying to say the same
thing, none of which went anywhere. I wanted to write. I knew I needed
to write. But in spite of me showing
up -- and staying at -- the page, no words came.
I know why. The answer to this is glaringly obvious. I just haven't known what to do about
it. Remember that situation I wrote
about? The one that is making me feel
small, and scared, and stepped on? It
still isn't resolved. And there are
other layers layering on, as layers are wont to do. There are steps, and I am taking them, slowly, but it is hard to take steps when
one feels small and scared and stepped on.
This isn't my body's
first time at the small, scared, and stepped on rodeo. This isn't my first time needing to find the
courage to stand up to situations and people and institutions making me feel
small and scared and stepped on. And,
oh, my body hates this place. It panics, and it gets sick, and it has a
hard time breathing, and it decides that, maybe, if we respond with enough
ridiculous intensity, the feeling will go away.
It doesn't work. I don't
recommend it. The only thing that does
is serve to make you feel really, really tired.
My brain is smart and
rational. My body -- well --she's just
trying to protect me, as misguided as her steps may be. But my brain tries to do the right thing. I try to face it head on. I try to put words to it. I try to reach out and talk to people, even if
just to say "Hi. I don't know what
to say, but I need to touch another human right now." And because of or in
spite of that, people -- my people -- my church people -- have been there. They have reminded me over, and over, and
over again in direct and indirect ways "you are not alone." "You are loved." "You are worthy, and badass, and okay, in spite of feeling a decided lack
of okayness."
Anyway, I went to
church this morning, and I was tired, and grumpy, and didn't much feel like
talking to people. It feels like there
are tethers tying down my typically buoyant heart, and I need some quiet to
figure out if I want to try to loosen those knots. I spotted a friend sitting in the back, and I
joined her. She's someone I know I can
just be quiet around.
But then the service
started, and by the time we sang the first hymn (Spirit of Life, a cappella, which will hit you in the heart with
raw truthiness on a good day), I realized I was probably in trouble.
See, I don't cry in
front of people. I don't cry by
myself. I can count on two hands the
number of people I have ever trusted enough to cry around. And, aside from a worship service at General
Assembly and the movie of "The Fault In Our Stars," (because, holy crap, who didn't cry at that movie?), I don't cry at
events. I just don't.
Except for today when I
did. And not just a little bit. Like, a lot.
Like, the fucking tears just kept falling because the minister just kept
saying words, and the more words she said, the more she touched that voiceless,
aching place in my soul. Those words
poked right at the grieving, aching part of me as if to say, "hey,
this? You know this part right
here? This hurting achy place? We see that, and know that, and
hold that, too."
And then, just as I stopped crying, the whole stupid sermon spoke right into THE place -- that cavernous
place that feels like alone, and unworthy, and unlovable that has been threatening to overtake me.
The words echoed into that hole, saying "even in this place right
here, you are loved. You are not alone. Even in this place where you feel most lost, you are seen and loved, if only
because we know those lost, and dark, and achy places, too."
Then we were supposed to sing again, and I couldn't, and my friend put her arm around me until I slowly composed myself enough to, at least, start wondering exactly how much makeup had run down my face.
Then we were supposed to sing again, and I couldn't, and my friend put her arm around me until I slowly composed myself enough to, at least, start wondering exactly how much makeup had run down my face.
The thing
about love like this is that it surprises you, and it scares the shit out of
you, and it hurts. It hurts like that moment when you move
the foot you've been sitting on and
it feels numb, and tingly, and stiff, even as it welcomes all the blood
flooding into it. It hurts, and its uncomfortable, and you want it to stop, even as you know this sensation is exactly what you need.
I imagine that's what
the rose feels when she opens to the light, isn't it? She feels love. She must. Otherwise, she never would have opened. She would have remained too
frightened.
As I was leaving, a new
friend -- someone I love to sing next to in choir but do not know very well --
gave me a hug and the most simple and profound act
of kindness and generosity one person can give to another. It surprised me in that same way -- in the life flooding into the achy part way. "I love
you," she said.
And that.
That.
That is how we do this
thing, isn't it?
We work like hell to
find the places we will be loved, and then, on the bad days when we are
hurting, and broken, and feel alone and unlovable with all of our broken, sharp, and
cracking parts, we show up and let the scab be ripped off. We let ourselves cry in church, we open
ourselves to vulnerability, and we let others breathe love into those cavernous
hurting places. We name the darkness
that threatens to overtake us, we let others tell us we are worthy and loved
and -- even if just for a moment -- we let ourselves feel it.
We feel the
encouragement of light against our beings.
We have to.
Otherwise, we would
surely all remain too frightened.
(For what it's worth, if you're reading this: I love you).
(For what it's worth, if you're reading this: I love you).
I saw this late. I love you. It's worth a lot. (both ways!)
ReplyDelete