I
Something is bubbling up inside that cannot be stifled. Not merely for the sake of self, but for the very idea that this self something.
It has the stale must of centuries before at the edges of the fabric, browning, hardening, and unwilling to leave. And yet, it is new. It is the most brilliant breath of fresh air that has ever graced the lips of those who feel as though they have suddenly awoken from a deep sleep. It is their awakening. It is their moment where the world doesn’t look different, but simply more defined. The blur has gone. Crystal-clear focus. Greeting everything and everyone for the first time all over again. The point of no return.
“That she was seeing with different eyes and making the acquaintance of new conditions in herself that colored and changed her environment, she did not yet suspect.”
I’ve realized that you can’t declare a personal “awakening”, you can’t demand it. It simply answers a question you have yet to ask. It’s as if it’s been an imagined shadow following you for years.
The corners of eyes alert you, and with a sharp turn you spin to see nothing but what was there a moment ago. For the briefest of seconds you can see it. You cry out “Ah-ha! I found you!” And just as quickly, you exhale- disappointed, you couldn’t have been wrong. There is substance to this tug in your gut, the chills in your palms, and it has been hiding in the soles of your feet this whole time.
There is a thread. A conversation spoken sometimes in whispers, sometimes in loud screams of frustration or excitement. Late in the night and early in the morning, there are secrets and joys being shared with abandon. Sometimes we feel beautiful despite it all, and sometimes there is shame- the anxiety and expectations of the world knock hard on the door and we let it in. There are mountains and there are valleys, there are puddles and there are rouge waves, there are Tuesdays and there are moments so fragile we’re afraid to breathe. I wish the world could see the truth that emulates form this sacred place, but the world does not want it. It seeks to destroy it, to tame it.
“I had the craziest dream last night. I was dancing the white swan.”
People have often said to me, “there is such beauty in the broken”. I’ve always hated this saying. It makes it sound as if we’re simply trying to find a way to make the ugly pretty, to throw make-up over the busted and damaged just to make everyone else feel more comfortable with it. We can’t get rid of it and we don’t want to deal with it so we might as well try to make it look good.
But maybe the brokenness is beautiful all on it’s own. Maybe the brokenness doesn’t need a makeover. Maybe, just maybe, the damaged just need to be heard for who they are, for what they are, not for what they could be.
The good, the bad, the shameful, the regretful, the hopeful. We are broken. We are damaged. We are busted.
And we revel in it.
Let them tell you that you shouldn’t shine so bright, shouldn’t talk so loud, shouldn’t take up so much space in the world, they’re merely dreaming.
“There was something about the island that made the girls forget who they had been. All those rules and shalt nots. They were no longer waiting for some arbitrary grade. They were no longer performing. Waiting. Hoping.
They were becoming.
They were.”
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