My heart hurts.
And I don’t want to run from the pain or hide out in false places,
but I’m not going to sink down into the ache and go dull to the salt and sizzle of living, either,
so I’m hurling clods scraped raw from the clay that I am
like bottle rockets exploding thanks, setting fire to the night,
because there’s fierce medicine in the kind of joy that won’t sit down
and with perspective comes a healing tide.
And for the record, I’m not gonna lie that I’m grateful for this heart-rip,
either, ’cause I’m not. Nope. Not one bit.
But I’ll say this true, from the bottom of my bruises,
that I’m grateful, yes I am, for this pile of shit dumped fresh
because I believe in compost
and I won’t waste this.
So let these punctures dig and poke and pull out plugs of my hard ground
until I’m soft and open and full up with air and sky and yes and fruit
and fresh and ripe and dreams growing thick on the vine.
Go ahead and fertilize me.
I’ll love life more for it.
And so, dear life, I’m gonna lean into the grace to square my shoulders,
hold still like a rock star,
and dare to let you love me back,
with a crazy kind of hope that won’t leave the dance floor.
And I won’t busy this pain on down but I’ll taste and listen
and let my lens be dipped in truth until I’m seeing clear
and knowing deep the Love that covers and keeps me here
because when I don’t trust your goodness
I don’t even see the light when it’s burning through my fear.
I’ll surrender everything but this joy.
That’s not ever gonna be on the table.
“But trading joy for less vulnerability is a deal with the devil.
And the devil never pays up.”
– Brene’ Brown