small, quiet

In the wake of a high and bright Independence Day vacation, the week that followed was long and barren, covered in a misleading thunder cloud.  Day after day, there it was, beautiful and threatening without the fulfillment of a silencing, engulfing storm.  I wanted my breath to be taken away, I wanted to look out and be scared, to be in fear.  Instead I just felt taunted, like the sky knew my feelings and wanted to mirror them back to me, jeering “Look at what’s in you!” Monday through Saturday.  Not one day or hour of sunlight in between.

Every corner I turn in myself, I am faced with a familiar band of misfits –  Comparison, Jealousy, Self-consciousness, and Proving.  Right next to me, walking beside me, is Peace.  What I really get exhausted by is having to constantly make decisions about my thinking, my feelings, and my behavior.  I cannot be trusted to auto-pilot walking around the labyrinths of my heart, the gardens of the day to day in me.  I am in constant need.

Do you think, over time, that I can fully surrender to being piloted by someone other than myself?

My eyes and ears always covered, and hands guiding me wherever I go, gently pulling me along, would I find joy in knowing the extent of my need with every step and turn, because of my complete dependence on Peace?  It is choosing to be stupid to surroundings.  Choosing to be blind and deaf and unknowing of the next steps and turns.  It is completely opposite of what I almost narcissistically prefer.  Control.  I hate not knowing my bearings.  I hate not understanding where I am and making decisions for myself.

One option is exhausting and scary, and one is just scary.  But probably, eventually, miraculously, my not having eyes or ears will become having those of a different kind.

On Saturday the same storm cloud was present, and finally, it rained.  I sat like a little girl, hands crossed over my chest, sitting criss-cross applesauce on the couch, desperate to hold on to my sour attitude.

On Sunday, I walked into church, wet hair, leftover anger (what I have dubbed the “angover”), and I surrendered to Peace.  Melting, letting go, putting things in their place (ie: not with me) felt like a hot, steaming shower in the dead of winter.  I love my little white flag.  It makes my life a monument to something other than myself.

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