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. 

a light spirit

 

in some ways, this is a misnomer.

my friends will tell you i am one of the most heavyhearted people they know.

i have struggled my way through mild depression, even before it could be called post-partum. never enough to be diagnosed, just enough to weigh on me. dysthymia, one psychologist-friend said. i've been to therapy, but never on medication. (yet. when i'm done breastfeeding, i am definitely considering it.)

but i wonder to myself if this is just the condition of those who choose to go deeper.

destined to the depths. with kelp wrapping, shark-fears circling... ever clawing our way to the surface for air. so then, why go deep at all? why dive down below the sparkling surface? why make new discoveries of beauty in the darkness?

because we must.

we must because we are no longer content with words that sail us happily along a glassy-flat experience of a one-sided life.

we must because we know he meets us there, more than anywhere, because we need him most there, where our ships have sunk. where our treasure can be regained.

and we must because of all the souls sinking around us. we are rescuers, those of us willing to plunge beneath lovely exteriors. bringing our diver's headlamp and what oxygen we have to the ones fighting for life. it's not enough for all of us sometimes, especially when the victim thrashes, disconnecting our breathing apparatus, headlocking us in their confusion, and we have to come up for air. but then we're right back in the frothy fray, stealing wriggling ones straight out of hungry jaws.

so this blog's title is maybe more of a twofold prayer, than a descriptor at this point.

a prayer for a light spirit - a spirit full of light, buoyed with purpose.

and a prayer that says, "alight, spirit. speak your light-words through me in this space."

jesus, make it so.