Skip to main content

Carry Me

This heaviness. I feel it inside my chest. Like a boulder has taken up residence. It's cozied up and made itself at home.

Crushing the previous tenants. Pushing them out of the way.

It's too big for this space. It's too big to be at home.

Go it must, but until I know it's tender name I have no business, no authority to kindly speak, "you don't belong here."

And yet, perhaps belong it does. Perhaps it's rolled in and made itself at home because it is longing.

Longing to be seen. Longing to be known. Longing to be named and held like a newborn in its mother's arms.

"Oh sweet child. Oh pretty thing. You are home and you are safe."

This heaviness. This thing I feel inside my chest. This part of me that is finally taking up residence. That's decided it is time to get cozy, it's time to call home.

Oh nameless beast, faceless foe.

May I welcome you at last. May I see your beaten face, your battered spirit. May I offer you shelter and rest.

Can I find the courage? Can I trod the tender way?

And how can I do this when I don't know what's before me? What's inside of me?

How can you traverse the unknown and mine the unseen? Who will guide me through these shadows? Who will lead me forth?

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

What you're thinking about

It's like a wash cycle. Press play and it knows what to do first, the thought that follows, the spin cycle that takes over, and the short calm that exists before it all begins again - the drum never getting emptied. Just an endless rinse and repeat, no change of clothes, no new soap, nothing new at all. It's these same old thoughts, the same old process of attempting to wring them out. To finally cleanse them of their soil and fill the drum with something fresh. Yet it seems like nothing new will ever get added. There will be no opportunity. The laundromat is closed, or indefinitely broken. Relational struggle filled with critique and complaint - all righteous of course - it's what's stuck in the drum now. I desire new thoughts but, somehow, it's always the toxic parts that want the longest wash cycle. Sometimes I open the detergent drawer and add in a heavy dose of bleach, "that'll do it, it should come out clean this time." But it's hard, trying,...
Post a Comment
Read more

Write about why you want to write.

Sometimes it feels like a necessary way to get what's inside of me outside of me. Somehow, writing allows me to process and dump my thoughts and feelings in a liberating way. I don't have to consider who's listening or how they'll feel and respond. I don't have to mitigate. I just get to say the thing and think about what I said afterwards. So much less vetting and mental gymnastics.  Also, sometimes it feels like the only space I can say the thing I want to say. But then I struggle, what's the point? Is anybody even listening? And if nobody's listening does it even matter. I read in a novel last night, "The sun was slowly rising, dipping the park and the gorgeous mountaintop in a sea of light. There was nothing to do or say. Sophie was experiencing the moment, witnessing this earth-old spectacle in silent. Sunrise and sunset always created emotions in her. There is so much unseen beauty in this world.  An incident from her childhood came to her mind. S...
Post a Comment
Read more

Something you're working on

A dream is growing. Seats filled. Anxious. Broken. Worried. Depressed. Grieving. Miscarried. Sorrowful. Hopeless. Lost. Dead. A haunting melody consumes the air. It is pain. Misguidance. Confusion. An anthem of strength overpowers the weight of the melody. Hard. Heavy. Worthy. Sure. A stage with a story. A man giving tools. A woman peddling good news. Seats. Leaning in. Wonder filled. Caught in curiosity. What is that stirring, that lifting, that . . . Hope? A dream is growing. Looking for the T[ea]
Post a Comment
Read more