At the edge of my story, I take tiny, tender-brave steps. Every step takes me into a story that’s larger than the one that has been perpetuating my wounds. Yet, the wounds need to be tended too.
I see parts of me coming alive like a million lavender flowers springing out from a lush green bush, or a glittering star-studded charcoal black sky. I provide myself with the nourishment I needed from my mother. I lead myself, embodying the stewardship I have longed for. Deep love pulsates in my heart, bringing forth so many facets of me together, the attentive lover, the soothing friend, the nurturing teacher, but each separate from the other.
We hold together in me, the scared one, the one who is hurting, shivering, the one who is reluctant to grow, always wanting to shrink into its shell of believing she is good for nothing.
“I am tired of this story and this pain”, says a sad voice “it has been so long, we have lost so much time”.
“It’s okay, we can take as much time as we need to” the wise one reassures.
I hold the fear on the palm and breathe safety into it. I hold the hurt as it surfaces and allow the balm of my loving attention to heal it.
Pain holds its own medicine. I witness this alchemy in reverence. The heart melts in devotion.
“This devotion, is it my true essence?”, I wonder.
It seems like I have been forever walking in the dark alleyways of the psyche; untangling some stories, getting caught in a few. What comes next, is never known.
At the edge of my story, I pause. I make this moment sacred with my breath.
At the edge of my story, I learn to accept uncertainty as my ally.
At the edge of my story, I embody calm within the eye of raging tempest.