bent

she said, “do you hear that? it sounds so sinister to me! what an accuser!!”

 i hadn’t noticed.

she pointed out that i have been moving toward - stepping into - my purpose. that I had heard affirmation, words of life directed at my identity, at my desire to bring healing, felt that spark of “yes! this is it! what i’m made for!” and, within two days, the very same places were attacked, twisted.

my value, beauty, worth all called into question by an enemy of my soul’s life.

bending almost certainly innocent words into strangleholds.

i had told her, with a sigh, a few weeks ago, “i wish everyone had a jolie*…” someone who speaks life-giving truth into hearts that need it. someone who can walk alongside, witness the heart of another, engage spiritually with them, and – in a way – love them, be jesus to them. her response was, “maybe they need an ailey.” wait – that’s my name.** like, i could actually be that type of a presence with people?! heart-racing excitement and terror came with that thought. that maybe, just maybe, i could offer the same Life that i have found.

obviously, you might be thinking.

but i'm thinking: i’ve tried that before. been vulnerable, opened my heart, spoken truth… and been held at arm’s length, rejected by crumbling brick walls they think will protect. and i’ve believed that the reason for that was my inadequacy. my inability to stand in the face of rejection, in the face of spiritual pressure. i’ve seen myself cave, give in to the warfare. let it take me.

not this time. not now that i know.

because, far from scaring me into inaction, when i realize the dark forces at play, it ignites something in me. i find a fight in me i didn’t know i had. i discover this part of my heart that refuses to allow the ultimate liar-thief-destroyer to have his way in the hearts of people i love, people i see.  myself.

so when my 3-year-old tells me i used to be pretty, and the enemy turns it into an attack on my worth, a foothold for lies about motherhood-failure and beauty-lack and all the other inadequacy-talk… i will stand. on my own two beautifully purposed feet. and breathe in oxygenating presence, and breathe out healing truth. truth of my worth and yours, our beauty, our love and lovability, our purpose.

like c.s. lewis' lucy with her dagger and cordial, tending the wounded... as a healer-warrioress i will join the battle. Stand with me?

*names changed to protect, well… me. This is an anonymous blog, ok? (baby steps.)

**no. it’s not. It’s a pseudonym.

dreamspace

I dream of a space where women are free to be.

Just be.

Rest. Stop putting on all the shows we always do around other people, assuming our actions and words will be judged on orthodoxy, our appearances on their presentability.

A space where we can be creative.

Where we can share a poem we’ve written – I see it all spoken word in my living room and on the streets. Where we can paint together, tell our most secret visions, or just sit quietly, resting in the presence of Love.

Where we are free not to be defensive because we know deep down for reals that our hearts are for each other, and that we are the beloved. A space where we can learn from our collective mistakes and strengths and offer our bleeding hearts to be cared for.

Where the wind blows through, welcome.

Where the firelight flickers and beckons and casts into darkness.

Where we can sing, where we can improv, draw, love.

Where the smells are of baking and chai spices.

A place to touch - take in texture and form - and be touched.

A place to be brave, face fears, leap.

A space where my offering –and yours- is accepted, cherished.

Where we lean on his chest and into each others’ lives at the same time. 

A place where “should” is not allowed, and our hearts are required.

And we take our baby steps right out across the water, just to be with him.

when your calling is a faint orange glow

laughter in the dark

vital abandon

voice being drawn out

aware of her windy reality.

(found poetry in my art journal)

***

A faint orange glows through the fog and gives me hope.

My life chaotic at best; at worst, a failure.

I dream big dreams of light cast into dark. Of artist-birthed life making its way into a hurting world. Of hearts healed. Of beauty and spirit-wind wrapped holy together, bringing truth that frees instead of binds.

And then I live.

Isolated, unfree myself. Wrapped wholly with the whims of beloveds and their bedlam. Unseen, unheard because I do not speak. I long to bring life, bravery. I live fearful, greedy for solitude, shamebound.

They say the area of your struggle is inseparably woven with your calling.

If I was having coffee with you and these words poured out of you, I would be so drawn to offer grace, rest. To make sure you knew you don’t have to meet anybody’s expectations (yours included). That, yes, you have this amazing calling to offer light and life and beauty and freedom and healing. But the failing is the lie.

All the trying, beating up the beauty because it’s not quite beautiful enough.

The fighting with life instead of living it.

And most of all, I’d want you to know he’s right there.

In the afternoons with a three-year-old anarchist whose heart you desperately want to guard in ways yours never was.

In the hundreds of minutes you feed and lullaby your baby, hoping for a soul that knows it’s worth rescuing.

In the confusion of intimacy.

In the tension between beauty-longings and real-life mess.

Even when you haven’t given him the time you “should”. There is no condemning coming from his heart, so if you’re sensing damnation-emotion, you gotta fight, albeit an unseen enemy.  One that pretends he’s not there so you think it’s your own voice, or even that of the life-way-truth. It’s not. He may even sound like people you love. He likes to put flesh-and-blood to his lies like that. But no matter what, it’s not true.

You are enough.

Your heart is worth fighting for, just like those little boys’.

And those women you dream freedom for.

He bled to rescue your heart, so you simply can’t give it back over to the liar. To the hater of your aliveness.

it might look like the easy way out – to wallow, to believe in your worthlessness. Because then it doesn’t matter so much that your days don’t look like your dreams. But think of the alive-in-your-purpose days. Isn’t even that handful worth the fight?

Well, isn’t it?

And I am surprised to hear my own heart answering yes. Oh, yes.