I must make home within my own heart, my broken, busted, earthquaked heart full to the brim with memories and hope and earth with the possibility of something new to grow.
You have to clear the field before you plant. The death of all the past year, of who I was, has to happen as slow moving as it feels at time. In the future: new things will grow in that rocky soil. Maybe not as easily but certainly as wild.
I’m trying to do that every day.
I’m doing my best.
My best is not great.
But my best is not awful.
Most days, it’s small.
It’s a very big life made of many small things.
But in those small things I am learning to love myself more and learning hold myself up to the light because there is no one else to do it but me. It is my job, to reflect the light that is within me, around me, in the world.
It is my job, and I take that as sacred and holy.
If there is someone who cannot hold you up to the light you become one of those little plants that grow in the dark all shriveled and small because you expect someone else to do your work.
It was not anyone’s job but mine. And I let that go for so long.
we are the only ones who can do that for ourselves.
What a scary lesson. I am happy I have learned it.
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