I think all writers know that no matter what you write, it comes from the deepest parts of you that are not just you at all. Our superstitions, or faith, or muse, or whatever we choose to call it, dwells so deep within and there is a clear distinction between when we go it solo and when the magic steps in and makes us better. Bleeding out is what I do best- and I believe roughly in faith, not at all in superstions and that my only muse is me, and God speaks clearly through that channel when I am quiet enough to hear.
The following is an illustration of such. The beginning is me and the answer is Him.
Grief on Hold.
In the sunshine, I always feel most whole. Which is ironic. Because in the sunshine, you must surely be able to see all of my cracks- the pieces that have been pieced back together with whatever lie closest at hand, just to make me upright. I never considered this until now. That I have been hiding within the sun- the light, exposed, and yet, acting as though you could not see my brokenness past that which I choose to reveal. But that would be, in fact, that IS, a lie. Brokenness reveals as a whole because broken is broken. Even when you think that it’s fixed. Being whole means the broken pieces too.Wholly broken could mean completely back together. So much of life is not either, or, but just all. It is both. It is the one AND the other. It is the all and the AND. Here lies my grief, or rather the grief that I hold AND the grief that holds me. Here lies that which has died and is no more, except that it always will be. Here lies that which has died only here within me, but still lives on outside of me- the days when I think,
I’m only feeling Minnesota.
How do you grieve what lives? What walks and talks, and is never here, but yet, has never left? How do you grieve that which never really lived at all, or that should not have lived in the first place, or worse, that which was alive until you got your hands all over it?
How do you cease grieving what isn’t yours to grieve? And perhaps the best question ever to be asked, but proposed as more of a statement- a fact even,
And what is left after those questions are asked? Even if they required an answer, or could in fact be answered…if an answer mattered at all, which I’m not entirely sure it does…
The truth. The truth lies within the grief…within what lives and dies. Within what is here and gone. Within the all and the and. And the truth is always me. The truth is always you. The truth will set you free because the lies are heavy. Grief is heavy. Why is not the question of your life, it’s the statement you make with your life. It is your response to what your soul cries out for- the deeper cry of the soul is why.
Cracked and broken is not broken. Pieces are put together to form the whole. To begin as one piece would be a mold. A repeat performance. A cast off. A replica of that which already is. And, you are not. Not a mold. Not a repeat. Not a cast off, or replica. You are not broken. You are not grief. You are not a lie. In the sunshine, you sparkle. What you call broken pieces, shards of a life that you pieced back together, are like diamonds in the sun, reflecting back to me the love and gifts that I have given you. The gift that is you. You cannot hide in the light. You are not exposed. You are revealed. And healed. And whole.