For the first time in my life, I feel like the ground beneath my feet is free of poison, the unseen half-life, of lonely, terrified, keep-your-head-down, unanchored beginnings.
Finally, I have peace. It is imperfect and possible.
Belonging is harder to achieve…to find. Friends who are more like family and family who are friends are my so-surprising embarrassment of riches. Their love and persistence have given me the courage to scrape the dead earth from head and heart. Hazmat soil mitigation in the promising ground of the story I still live. Now, rocky and thin in places, just like the fertile Flint Hills.
I am no longer afraid of what lies beneath. It is all story, my story.
I offer it here for the same reason I have spoken of rape and a hide-under-the-bed growing up; too many people have lived through similar unrelenting hurricanes of life. They are exhausted and wondering if hope is the last mocking of living. Is it worth trying again and to keep going?
I would say yes.
Not a hearty booming Father-Christmas, YES!, but a measured, long-considered and still hazy, yes.
Because who knows what lies before us?
Who knows what wonder brings if we will allow wonder to do its thing in us.
The past is already written; today is not yet.
Discouragement and broken-heartedness does not need to be our last gasp.
If anything, don’t let the bastards get you down.
Overcome. Because you can.
We can. There are still days when it is too much. Memories worm their way into a moment and the flashback takes all of my air. I have to ask myself to describe to me what is true today. Sometimes, I ask a friend to listen. Rarely, I drink more than my half glass of deep red or salty sour Gose beer.
Do not let the bastards take any more of your moments.
You do not need to be perfect. You get to be brilliant, beautiful and still in process.
This is my travelogue of 2018 as I bumble about the next steps of my in-process story. You are welcome here.
Let’s walk this out together.