(Originally published on June 3, 2016)
I want you to know where I’ve been, and what I did once I got there, but the last time I stitched more than six sentences together was back in December, so let me first remind you of what was said (it’ll add up for later):
“I’m not the same person I was a month ago, last week, or yesterday. Years and all these exhaustive, demanding, sharp life events eventually caught up and crashed into me tsunami style. It was a Sunday afternoon on a walk with Austin when I became my own ragdoll, rolling under waves and water, thrown this way and that way, breathless, breaking to pieces.
It must’ve happened because I finally made space in my calendar to fall apart, which is related to the question: how much self-talk do we talk just to keep ourselves sane until a more suitable time?
That night I crawled on palms and knees into bed, fell down next to the terrible pain in my chest and sobbed out that universal question: “What is the meaning of life?” (It is good for the girl with so many answers to sit in the dark without them for a while, to be cradled by a long shadow of doubt. Isn’t this an essential place which provokes more hunger for God?)
In hindsight all that emotion can sound sort of silly and stageworthy–even to myself–except the raw and the grind and the fracturing was real and there’s only so much a body can take, eh?
And maybe I should’ve seen it coming . . . how I had reached a fullness of myself. Do you know what I mean? Every now and again there are reasons why we outgrow our own clay container; we outgrow our former selves and the breaking to bits is a sign of those times–the busting before the next burgeoning.
In more words: Who I was couldn’t support who I am becoming.
So here I sit with my splinters and limbs hanging out on the line to dry, littering the street and sidewalk. Look how my ideals are leaking onto the sheets with no skin to hold them in. Ashes to ashes we all fall down, or take a rake in the forehead when we don’t see it lying there in the leaves.
I can’t rightly recall how many times brokenness and I have ridden the merry-go-round together, but there is one thing I can ascertain from my every experience with it:
Just about the entirety of what I think I know when I’m feeling whole goes right out the window. And that’s okay. Because who am I but a sojourner in a body I didn’t make, in a land I didn’t create.
What do I actually know of anything?
Humility and humanity must go hand-in-hand. Which is to say: humility and humanity come from the same root word meaning “of the ground; earth”. There are seasons when we should go so low we hit it with our faces. And by “it”, I mean: gravel, grit, forest floor or floorboards. Hit it. Dust thou art and to dust thou must return.”