I will not die an unlived life.
I choose to inhabit my days,
to allow my living to open me.
I choose to risk my significance.
where did we learn to hoard ideas of smallness? where did the misery of suffering become the only way? how do we relearn redemption? how do we open our heart? what does it mean to forgive while honoring our deepest pain? whose life are we living?
We don’t, not any of us, get to this point clean. No. We’re all dirty and ragged. Rough edges and sharp corners. Fault lines and demolition zones. We’ve got tear gas riot squads aiming straight for the protest lines of our weary souls. Landmines in our chests that we trip over every time we try to hide from the terrifying tremble of our own war torn hearts. It gets messy in there. We are dirty mirror reflection. Rusty razor blade heartbeat. We cut and we bleed. Smash down barbed wire barricades with bloody fists and hastily throw up brick walls when happiness gets too close for comfort. We stay stubbornly still in spaces that do not serve and run the hell away from the beauty that could finally save us. These things, love, are the aesthetics of your grit. This is the birthright of your holy flawed humanity. It’s in the beauty of your breakdown. The brilliance in the center of your shatter. The exquisite truth of your torn apart. The graceful moan of your damned. The tumbled brick and broken concrete of your dashed dreamscapes. The hard-earned gravel in your angel voicebox. It’s the loss layered on loss. The clench in your gut that says, ‘No, I am not done yet’. The fire in your flee. The desperate fight of being the one with nothing left to lose. It is the brutal courage it takes to say a holy howl of a yes and follow it right to the terrifying edge of all that there is. Love, beauty can’t always look pretty. Your perfect is so often inherently flawed. Grief can be a clumsy ghost. She runs headlong into all your tender parts and wails her regrets for everyone to hear. So do not practice denial of self or past or grief. You don’t need the façade right now. Rip away the false face. Open wide the locked door museum exhibit of your holy history. Demolish your crumbled brick walls, your dumpster daydreams, your rusted chain link fence. Don’t deny your kaleidoscope heart. Without the broken it could never be so beautiful. Stand naked, in the middle of the vast empty space, arms wide, inviting in all that will come. It’s true. We don’t, any of us, get to this point clean. We don’t get to this point whole. But your prayer flame of a heart burns steady and true. Through the darkest nights. Through the most terror filled lighting strike. In the grit and the broken, in the blood and in the fire you still arrive. And every time you are the personification of the most holy grace. Again and again. Terrified. True of heart. Full of grace. You still arrive…….Jeannette LeBlanc
The soul hovers like a sun within-
burning its way out
without ever leaving center.
We call this- the burning out-