Light and Healing

Isaiah 58:10-12

 10 And if thou draw out thy soul to the hungry, and satisfy the afflicted soul; then shall thy light rise in obscurity, and thy darkness be as the noonday:

 11 And the Lord shall guide thee continually, and satisfy thy soul in drought, and make fat thy bones: and thou shalt be like a watered garden, and like a spring of water, whose waters fail not.

 12 And they that shall be of thee shall build the old waste places: thou shalt raise up the foundations of many generations; and thou shalt be called, The repairer of the breach, The restorer of paths to dwell in.

This sounds like a promise to me. Perhaps I'm doing all right after all...

Year of Light

As another year commences, the storm around my soul shrieks as though banshees are riding it and are either having a really great time of it, or are being tortured to death; I can't quite figure out which. Both situations probably sound the same. 

Last year's theme, Triumph at Daybreak, has been whipped and lashed by the storm, and I still struggle to make sense of it. I feel firmly that I was not in error in choosing that theme. Perhaps, however, I was in error for being so self-serving as to think it would be my own dawn. No, the day which broke was not mine. I brought it. Or, rather, I carried it on my wings, which I had thought too damaged to fly. The daybreak was not for me. It was for another, who is only beginning to see it for what it is. The triumph was shared. All nights must end! And those which seem most endless leave us unable to recall what light is or to recognize it when it appears.

Light? What light? There is darkness and hail and harsh wind that threatens to rip me into shreds, which laugh and taunt as they torture me. What is light? How can I carry it to another and yet not see it myself? How can I have no strength left and yet give it to those around me? And for that matter, how can such a tempest threaten my very being and yet barely be perceivable to everyone else? 

Last year, I confidently and faithfully anticipated a time of vindication, a return to the peace and calm which I have always felt should exist within me, a restoration of that immense joy which made my very existence seem justified and perhaps even wonderful. 

I was wrong.

The closest I got was a distraction, a new obsession with which to put freedom from my mind in order to learn of and hone new talents and abilities in the service of others. And I am grateful. It's been a wondrous experience, and I shudder to think what state I would be in now if I hadn't had such beautiful opportunities. I am stronger, wiser, tougher, braver, and more enduring.

And then my mother died.

Despite the love and support offered to me by so very many, I felt utterly alone. I always do. That's part of my quest. My own journey dictates that I must face my greatest demons alone. I will be loved and encouraged and given words of consolation, which will roll right off me as though I am immune to their tonic, but only I hold a sword. Perhaps that is as it should be; it's ever been in my nature to run to others for help. I always want someone else to save me. But only I hold the sword! And I have wings. Learning to use them has been painful and terrifying, and I am saddened that I cannot use them to soar due to the ferocity of the storm and the demons, but they have kept me aloft and saved those I serve.

Light. I know not upon whom the light will shine, but I know well whence it cometh. Whether I carry it to others or bask in it myself, whether it shines as broadly as the sun or as fleetingly as a dim candle, it will be a gift and a blessing. My wings are weary and ragged, my sword is blood-stained, and my load is heavy as I continue to weather the storm and battle the demons alone.

But the light will come. 

Don't Tell Me to Get Over It

A Guardian on the Death Watch

The Watch is Over

That wasn't easy to endure. Well, duh, right? But it left me far emptier than even I would have suspected, and I did expect it to shatter me. However, it's now been 3 months and I still feel just as raw, just as empty, just as shattered, just as fragile. As though a part of me is in that box, in the cold ground, rotting.  And it is. Oh, it is. Who can explain to the uninitiated the bond between a nurturing, empathic mother and her nurturing, empathic daughter after years of battling the harsh world together? In a relationship where much is communicated through tone of voice, facial expression, and deep understanding of one another, words themselves are mere embellishment.

But now those words are silenced by a divide that cannot be traversed by the living, and the dead are restricted from free communication with those they left behind.

Oh, I'll be fine. I'm a warrior. A survivor. This will not conquer me. But perhaps it's not unreasonable, given these circumstances, that it's taking me a bit longer than one might anticipate. Be patient. I always come out fighting.