“Write hard and clear about what hurts”

Where to start really. My thoughts are pretty smudgy these days… Lately I’ve rarely allowed my words to escape and actually move in this world. I haven’t allowed them the opportunity to make something of themselves. I know they can. They have always have.

I once heard a poem about shrinking. Most recently I’ve been doing a lot of that. I’ve allowed externalities to hush my cause. I’ve resigned, and allowed people to come in and carve out my voice box.  I’ve forgiven, and then seen honesty take off its mask and underneath; something so disfigured it’s unbelievable. I’ve let vulnerability bleed right out of me, hoping that the people I trusted most with my life would help me clot; would help me heal, but instead my hurts were patronized.

Recently I’ve been broken.

I have yet to find a silver lining that covers all the cracks. But I have found a few things which seem to cradle my eyes as I look upon my damaged condition.

They are the warm flushes of black tea, bathing my insides, reminding me that I am able to receive more than what I have simply been given; I can open the porch door and let cold hand-me-down winds blow somewhere else.

They are laughing over milkshakes and hamburger sliders with two honest people who sit presently with you.

Those tiny things seem to dilute the hurt I have been served. But it is those tiny things that I chose for myself.

I am choosing to be receptive & trusting & insoluble & insightful. I am choosing to be with those who look upon me with grace and excitement because I am messy but I am also filled with springing creation. I am choosing to trust myself because The Lord trusts me with his dreams.

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