Our wounds are collective.
My blood flows freely, unending.
It carries with it the anguish of a life, but no, a thousand lives, a million lifetimes.
We are all warriors, no? Then leave me not alone to die, dear friend, sing me a song.
For I approached unarmoured, the blade deftly danced, and here I will be, dead before long.
This entry is dedicated to those of us who've been rejected while being our true selves, and to my friend StormerGirl.
A dozen babies lay swaddled, squirming for comfort, freedom, rest from the turmoil of their birth. Had any of them enjoyed their journey from a weightless bliss to the heavy reality of artificial light, sudden cold and separation from Oneness? Two infants lay side by side, they are just hours old. Wrapped in pink cotton, one weighs lightly at three pounds, the other even lighter at two and three quarter pounds. They will have to be incubated.
Peering through the glass wall, smiling faces are seen, their eyes are curious, in wonder. There is something pure, innocent and powerful about the miracle of life which inspires awe and vulnerability in humanity. For one breathless moment, the world forgets its crude nature, it forgets itself.
‘That one there, you see her? She’s the one, that’s your daughter.’ The lady said to her brother as she pointed. The baby was serene, her little face round and pretty. With alabaster skin, she resembled the fragile snowflakes that lightly fell outside that very moment. It was the week before Christmas when this little babe was born, an angelic gift of sorts.
‘And that one right there, next to her…is the other one. You have two, Joe!’ The lady resounded joyously. ‘Who - that one? No, that one’s not mine, she’s too ugly. That’s someone else’s.’ He affirmed. ‘What’re you talking about Joe, of course she’s yours. She’s even dark like you.’ He was still for a moment then shook his head, ‘No, I’m telling you, that one’s not mine.’ Of course I was.
From day one, someone made it clear that I didn’t belong. I ignored them, marched onward with steel and leather as my skin. My mind is not my friend. I moved up, outside the earth’s realm, I am small, insignificant. I pulled myself back, clawed desperately at the dirt and proclaimed, I am Here – See Me. Still, I was alone.
Last year, I met someone who moved me outside myself. It was the first time in my life that I braved anything so personal to me. Healing the abuse and any other horror I found within didn’t compare to the fear I felt at being rejected by this person. I had never felt so insecure, so vulnerable and utterly inept as I did then, extending myself in friendship.
It didn’t matter. I didn’t matter.
Hallelujah Heartist was born of pain and rejection. It was born of anger and hurt and confusion. It was born of all the ugliness and insecurity inside of me, during a pinnacle moment, when someone agreed. I was me – and then suddenly, I was no one.
I didn’t mean any harm, was not hurtful in my intent. I never wore my cloak or held my sword though I knew I’d likely fight some battle when I searched your warm eyes. I always risked being me so I could feel the beauty of you. My armour, shiny as it was, would reflect your light away and I couldn’t let go to waste all that you are, so I never wore it. I wanted to feel you go through me instead. I did, a ripple of energy electrified me, gave me life, I would tremble, struggle for composure. I’d take the wounds, the pangs of pain made real by our interaction, made real by the clear differences between you and me. You were worth it to me. You still are.
Continued on Friday July 29th, 2011
Until then, I remain yours,
Lesley
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