Gripped


I heard a phrase in a song recently: “Not going to hold onto anything I’m not willing to let go.”

Of course it got me thinking about what my fingers are tightly wound around. Clenching. Clutching.  Gripping. Dragging.

My heart’s desire is to hold things lightly.  Carefully and gently, but with abandon.  Like holding a baby egg, all fresh, warm and new.  Don’t drop it.  Hold it like it’s mine,  but it isn’t mine.

I confess woeful inadequacy.  I am satisfied with so little, I’m afraid.  The collection of stuff has been a journey I’ve been on for so long that I can’t remember not traveling.  Successfully concealing it from time to time, it’s never not stuff.  Hanging from hooks, placed in cupboards, nailed on walls, or draped on me?  Just things, partially saying who I am, but never the real, entire story.

I’m not saying that life isn’t filled with wonderful pleasures.  It is.  There are.  I’ve written about mine many times, and I have no intention of abandoning what makes me smile or makes me me.  How I am stretching is realizing how often those things get in the way for me.  Sometimes they’re just downright noisy, and the Voice I want to hear I can’t even find. I’m content with temporary when my heart just screams forever.

On the other hand, I think I might be making progress.  Awareness precedes action and I believe that.

I can feel one of my eyelids opening.

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