In the quiet of a chilly autumn morning I sit with myself, shouldering a burden of thoughts that seem so preposterously heavy I'm not even sure how I manage to carry them all by myself. I wonder why I choose to carry them all by myself, instead of asking someone out there to help me bear the load. It feels impossible though, that I could just unload some of this, hand it off to someone else and be free from it.
In all my thinking and trying to figure things out, the only truth that keeps coming back to me is that of my own brokenness. I broke a long time ago, when I began to realize that life never quite lives up to the expectations we set for ourselves as children. I broke a little more when I found out that my differences--something as seemingly insignificant even as having red hair and freckles, could separate me from the love and acceptance of my peers. With every set-back, every disappointment, every failure, brokenness replaced my image of myself until finally, I sit here on a couch in someone else's world looking at myself, the broken pieces of me all askance from my effort to hold on to parts of me that I should probably let go.Sometimes we break in such a way that our pieces don't fit back together the same way anymore..
I feel as though my life became a competition somewhere along the way. I wanted to prove to myself and to everyone else that my ideas about love, fairness, hope and faith could all exist in perfect harmony; I wanted them to exist without struggle, without boundary, without fear or loss. With every set-back though, I learned more and more that without struggle, without limitations, and especially without loss, the sweetest things in life become the very things we take for granted.
All those broken parts of me define me. I could strive for perfection and perhaps remain intact, never letting my human experience break through the thin shell of my outer existence, but then who would I be? What substance would I possess? I believe I would be an empty vessel, sealed off so tightly that no amount of love could ever make its way to my core.
If we seal ourselves away so completely, no outpouring of love, empathy, joy or goodwill can ever reach our hearts. We are often too afraid to open ourselves up the easy way and let love transform us. That resistance is why I sit here with these heavy thoughts and an even heavier heart, having poured out all I am trying to fill a vessel that can't even crack itself open enough to even let in a little of what I have to give. What I am will never be good enough. I possess no perfection to offer. I am scarred and still somewhat wounded. At times my weaknesses over take me, I hide myself away so I can hang on to parts of me that seem so necessary to keep, but only because no one offers me a safe place to surrender them.
I need no judge or jury to tell me that I am so flawed and imperfect. I know this very well.
I seek only for the safety of acceptance as I seek to accept those around me. I wish for the peace of resting securely in the kind of knowledge that is only known by the soul when we are made whole by the unconditional love of someone who has the courage to help us piece ourselves back together.
Yes, I am broken and my soul is poured out. But brokenness is part of life. It shatters our ideas of perfection and challenges us, time and time again to redefine ourselves and what gives us meaning.
I sit here in the quiet of an autumn morning on someone else's couch, listening to a little fire crackling in the heater, the rush of cars on the highway outside and the sound of my own voice telling me to let go; let the scattered remains of who I am fall where they may so God, or the Universe or whomever will, can put me back together again. Because I am only able to make an abstract version of me, and that girl doesn't make sense to anyone.
