I grew up not knowing what being vulnerable or intimate really meant. I never learned to let go, to completely relax in the presence of another. I didn’t know it was possible to surrender to myself, to trust completely, to love with my whole being.
I find it hard, still. There are days when I cannot hold myself, love myself. So silly – how can Love not love itself? There is no separation in this Universe, there are no real fragments deep in the psyche. Where the soul ends, the Earth begins, but who can tell where that line is? And yet we build walls, we draw boundaries.
Writing and sharing publicly in a vulnerable way is both my practice and my service to the world. It is me creating the humanity I wish to experience: a more sensitive, gentler, deeper one. And why not go public? People bring all their insanity out in the open every day, and little is said or done about it.
Love is sanity/ sanity is freedom/freedom is reality.
When I share my humanity here, people sometimes message me to ask if I’m okay. Well, during the winter the lake freezes over, does it not? The tree loses its leaves. The seeds lay dormant in the ground, the soil is hard and cold. Beloved, it is known that for everything there is a season. And a time for every emotion, grief, longing and purpose under heaven. “It is all so very okay”, a friend told me once. And I say this to you today: “It is all so very okay”.
Don’t get me wrong, I get angry too. I get bitter about the state of the planet, about the cruelty and ignorance of humans. I always have. It used to immobilize me, cut me off from life. These days I take my anger and mix it with buttermilk and flour, bake some southern breakfast biscuits. And then I get to work, throwing my concepts in the fire and watching as they alchemize into presence, depth, compassion, and a better course of action.
Every person has their sphere of influence and their destiny. Mine is to strum your heart-strings, to tune them to the pitch of the Universe. It is to take your thoughts and open them up, rearrange them like a Rubik’s cube, infuse them with rose water, and give them back to you. Look at them, question them, nurse them to life like the wounded eagles they are, then set them free. The mind was made for soaring, as you were made for free-fall.
I write to melt your granite, absorb your grenade.
I hand-stitch these letters into a warm embrace for you, to cushion your fall into these universal arms.
There is no personal love for you here, among these words. There’s just the love of little bronchioles welcoming oxygen into your lungs.
There’s just the love of your two hands, with their ten precious fingers, going to work for you patiently, trustingly, loyally every day of your life. Adore them by throwing them skyward, extending yourself to your rightful bearing. Become this being with hooves and wings that dares to love and bear the pain of it.
I often look at people and wonder, if their spirits were allowed to roam free, what creative wonders their lives would gift us. Really, what songs could you sing in this beauty-denying world? Shy mockingbird, the poets have asked you many times before, and now I happily join their choir.
I once had a vision that glass was separating me from the world, and I was so very sad. Something inside me said “smash it!” so I did, embracing, kissing, singing and dancing with everyone and everything on the other side. And then I spent the rest of the year feeling pinched off from the oneness; lonely, judgmental and struggling with self-worth. Love is terrifying, freedom even more so.
But the seed of that vision remained, and I didn’t know how to share it, to help it grow.
Until today. Look, I extend my arm to you and open my palm:
there it is,
the seed of coming together.
Plant it, water it and pass it on. Be like the thoughtful gardener who mailed me milkweed seeds without knowing me, for free. I opened the envelope and saw a dozen monarchs flying out and around the living room.
It’s almost spring time, and the frost will thaw and the leaves will sprout and our boggy loneliness will bloom a dazzling iris, reaching for the sun.
I am convinced there is no other way; for all my failures, here’s an endeavour I will not betray. To do so would be a sin, and to sin is to miss the mark. There is no guilt in sin, no judgement. Just tilt your oar, adjust your rudder, that’s what sin says. Find your way back Home. Make effort towards the truth, be active in love, but don’t do it with violence, don’t force your ideas on a world that merely needs a glass of cool fresh water poured over its burning body. Foremost, don’t force them on yourself, from experience I tell you it does not work. It’s best to be silent, be still, be gentle, and let the subtle layers of the heart unfold their precious secrets.
May my words remind you of the artesian well in the core of your chest. May they be like the breeze tickling the leaves of some forgotten intuition, some secret yearning.
May you look inside and find that you are not blood, cells and bones but galaxies, stardust and cosmic rays; the Universe itself, playing in infinite spirals of inspiration, expression and annihilation.
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