I have been following the path for years and, in my way, stumbling off and on not realizing the perfection in that. The story in my head of how things should be would inevitably shame me. It would twist the conditions of my life up into big, writhing knots and I would suffocate in the tangle. Is this how we all feel at times? Victims of our own making? Because underneath all the noise and the blame, we often seem unable to be at ease with ourselves.

I have not been at ease with myself.

I wanted to rush. I wanted to skip steps. I didn’t want to look at all that had happened. And a lot had happened. I could look at the surface of it, could peel a layer or two, but then I’d run. I would run straight into whatever lovely distraction found its way to me. Of course I would. Sometimes things happen so fast, so painfully all-at-once, that it’s all we can do to keep our mouths to air. It has only been in the past few months that I have been able to see this and forgive myself.

And this is a gift.

So I walk the path in my perfectly imperfect way. And as this life whizzes by, I begin to come to terms with the fact that I am merely a witness. I am in it and not of it. The strands of my hair are stroked by Something Beyond. I can feel it when I yawn with pleasure, or listen to a river running…when I look into the eyes of children or hear the heartbeat in a lover’s chest. I am pulled there, away from hurt and unholiness. It is my Home.

My Home.

Healing happens. It does. It happens perfectly in its own sweet time. Our task is simply to give ourselves to it fully, armed with trust. This is a willingness, however small at first, that will grow until we become it completely. I have merely dipped my toe so far and yet it has me. It has pulled me gently into its compassionate embrace and I really have no need for fear.

But I still do. I still fear.

I hold onto the fear for now because it’s the devil I know. And in the meantime I am taken up into the loving swirl of what is. I ride it, my eyes open darting back and forth between the heavy cloak of the world and the incredible lightness of God. I teeter between lies and the Truth with an underlying pulse of a poem telling me it’s all done already. Peace is mine. And everyone I love is with me. They never left.

I never left.

But for now I walk the path. Timid, arms crossed, breaths shallow, I walk the path. The difference now? It is simply this:

I know I do not walk alone.

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