Sometimes words fall, scrambled, at the feet of one you’d hoped would hear,
scattered like tiny stones,
so that instead of understanding and connection,
you hold your story alone.
In reaching out to try and build something real,
to find and clear where wires crossed,
sometimes relationship is restored;
sometimes you must grieve what is lost.
These are hurts we’ve all wrestled and known,
feeling shut out from a place that once felt like home
And it trembles so hard, the possible loss,
that I’ve often rushed the process and betrayed my own heart.
I want to unlearn those hurried ways
to be sanctuary and shelter and my own safe space.
Because what if we don’t need to know right now,
what if un-knowing is a safe place to be,
that sometimes mystery is the most honest space we can hold.
Being misunderstood is not fatal to our joy.
Once I accept that my words have not been understood,
that their spirit may never be heard,
I can begin to forgive
and in forgiving, to heal.
In forgiving I gain a soft and open space
where my soul clamped down tight with wound before.
When your heart stops thrashing to be heard,
it gets freed to sing more songs.
Sing them fearless, friend.
Love will always sing along.
Thanks for coming around, even in my messy-in-the-middle times.
Right now it’s where I am.
I love that there is beauty even in struggle. And I want to keep it real.
Been swimming in The Book of Forgiveness by Desmond Tutu.
Healing waters. A masterpiece. Every line artful and alive.
“We do not heal in isolation.
When we reach out and connect with one another –
when we tell the story, name the hurt, grant forgiveness,
and renew or release the relationship – our suffering begins to transform.”
– Desmond Tutu