Tagged: release

Is it I, Lord?

Am I stuck now facing a shift from “I could do that” to “I can’t not do that”?

My still place is melding to my moving place. My retreat is melding to my life.

I need to stop in order to be able to go.

And I find I have misplaced, “over-placed”, my faith in others. I have trusted too easily, too trustingly. I must engage far more critically, confidently, deeply, because that is where and who I am, and what more have I?

The really scary thing is admitting to, owning, facing, showing my threatening, difficult self. Not because I’m afraid of her, but because I believe others are.


Oh but the time is so slow!

Something here – here, in this location, in the life I have lived here – is not right, is wrong. I know what it is. What I do not know is how big or deep it is; on what power it sits; how it comes to be here.

I need it out of my life. But how to do that? If I’d been stronger, I might have changed it. But I was weak. Is it too late to put that right, or to begin?

Is it my job to change it, is that why I’m here…my calling?

As I walked this afternoon, I found my heart was crushed by the words of a song, and I stopped to sob, leaning on a holly tree. As I did so, I noticed a pin stuck into the holly tree. And all of a sudden, all I could do was to find a way of removing the pin, of withdrawing the source of the tree’s pain, and then of trying to heal it. Of course, I couldn’t – perhaps my tears did a little – but the tree remains, and I drew out that needle. Am I here to draw out needles, the tiny lances of pain that no-one even notices most of the time? That does feel like what I do, often. That my steps are small and that they make differences, in very small ways. But that can’t heal the tree if the roots are rotten, and it can’t sew back on a sawn-off arm.

Words for today:

“know that you are a person that generates love”.

That matters. Are there people who don’t, though?

I don’t want to be here; I don’t want the pain. I want to be released. I want to pull out all of the parts of me that have come to belong here, and to gather them unto myself and to thus begin to heal from all the wounds that have cut so deeply into me. This is a bad place for me. And still I feel I must be here. Maybe that’s just a mistake. Maybe it’s cowardice. Maybe it’s right. I don’t know. I do want it to stop hurting me now, though. I don’t like it and I don’t feel clean or good here. I feel contaminated and used and beaten and bruised, and I want it to stop.