The Woman and the Wolf…on Interpreting Dreams…..

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I rarely dream. And when I do, I rarely remember them. And when I remember them, they are nightmares of the past, often repressed memories that seep their way into my sleep-tossed thoughts. These dreams seem to dangle their legs on both side of the consciousness fence…just enough trigger me awake in a fervent night sweat, but elusive enough for me to not be able to own and disarm them. It is a rare and significant event when I dream, and I remember it’s contents when I awake, and it isn’t some mocking joke of the pain of my past, but instead a mysterious puzzle that I WANT to piece together.

This was the type of dream I had last night; and I have mulled over it’s contents since I awoke, wondering what message it’s sending me.

Ask me twenty years ago if I believed then that dreams meant anything other than an oddly fragmented amalgamation of the sum of all of our various parts and passions, pleas and plotlines, pieced together in some helter skelter chaos, and I would have kindly, but firmly disavowed any other perspective. But now, I’ve lived too much of life, seen the evidence too often of thin spaces where spiritual and physical meet, where supernatural and gravity dance, where what isn’t said or even coherently thought into existence plays just as much a part of ordering our daily steps as what we view with the naked eye.

So this is what I dreamt.

I was above a bustling, busy, belligerent, boisterous populated scenario. It wasn’t a geographical place, it was just filled with people, lots of them. Shades of gray and grime and grit were what painted the neverending seemingly dark night of a collective soul, almost languishing in a rave like unified movement.

But I was above it all, in a gondola of sorts, flying over the rushing commute hour frenzy below. And while there were a few people there with me in the gondola cab, it was like we were existing side by side, but weren’t cognizant that each other was even there.

Except there was a police officer with us. And he and I were interacting in such a way that we shared a somewhat intimate, beautiful embrace…just a hug… but it was genuine warmth at its’ most beautiful.

But then it wasn’t.

I pulled away, my guard going back up . Nothing he said or did led me to react in such a way, it was simply my lack of believing he was genuine.

And then I saw a pair of earrings, shining in the otherwise darkened gondola space, hanging from a sellers arm. They caught my eye, and with their encompassing shine, my whole being felt refuge, safety from everything going on below, and from the few people in the gondola, including my cop. But what drew me in and imprinted itself on my mind, searing a space in my heart until this very moment, was the design on  saw on the earrings.

In an etched silver metal design, there were mountains. And below the mountains was a gray wolf. And below the gray wolf, or rather wrapped in his furry embrace, was me, securely lodged in a place of warmth and light. I felt confident. I felt safe. I felt free. Oddly.

And I woke up, for once, with a steady heartbeat. And steady hands. And dry sheets, cool to the touch.

It was a dream, rather than a nightmare. A mosaic of hope, rather than a ritual reminder of terror and pain. And I smiled. And it was good.

And then I looked up what a wolf in your dream DOES represent:

To see a wolf in your dream symbolizes survival, beauty, solitude, mystery, self-confidence and pride. You are able to keep your composure in a variety of social circumstances and blend into any situation with ease and grace. You are also a loner by choice. To see a white wolf in your dream signifies valor and victory. You have the ability to see the light even in your darkest hours.

Wolves are seen as majestic, beautiful and as a source of sacred wisdom,” she explains. In general, though, Richmond says dreaming about wolves entails facing a fear. She suggests asking yourself what you are frightened of and how you can control the situation. “Certainly the North American Indian cultures and tribes find the wolf a very important dream symbol,” notes Richmond. “It is considered a strong warrior symbol and is associated with wisdom and healing.”

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When Holy Thaws

I felt this today. This week. These last couple of months. This overwhelming darkness, sense of unraveling. This cry of anguish and angst over moments that have been seared into my mind, of haunting “why me’s” that I have heard inaudibly whispered from those I love. I have been doubled-over, stumbling, from carrying the chiseled burdens of those who I watch struggle to stay afloat, drowning in the chain of shattered dreams. I know God, that You are the closest to those who are stripped of all that comforts, that You are the balm that heals from the fractured slivers of hope. But now, in this empty space, this barren land, please come to us like rain. Even if the darkness doesn’t fade, let justice flow over and around us like a river, flooding our land with all good things. Strengthen this weary soul so that those who look to her for strength see that she is their rock because of He who steadies her. Use this long night that has exposed us raw become the dawn through which Your greatest purpose and presence can be born in and through us. Amen

Advent

I used to disregard Advent as an unnecessary ritual, thinking that the true gift of this season was the birth of Christ (albeit being celebrated at the wrong time of year, according to historians); and the miracle IS that event. But as I’ve lived life, I’ve come to grasp the rooted hope that, even more powerfully, His presence is relevant and most profound in this in between time…in this holding of space….in the longing for what is, and will be, but isn’t yet.

Advent means “coming”, and in that waiting, in that holding of space, we acknowledge that there is something that we long for, a brokenness that cuts, a discouragement that withers the soul, and an ache that asks why.

It is a tension that pulls both ways, and we wonder how to reconcile the two…how to make peace without justice, how to find joy within the darkness; how to honor the Promise, while still seeing through blurred tears.

This season of Advent speaks clear to me. My prayer is one of crying out, one of seeking to be transparent in my sorrow, while still trusting the One who’s birth makes all things right…one of knowing when to stand guard, and when to stand down…one of knowing when to draw in and encircle, and when to draw a line in the sand….one of knowing when to speak the ache, and when to hold quiet in silence.

The more I know I need Him, the more I’ve come to look and watch for Him. The more He answers my thoughts, the more I’ve learned to ask the questions. The more I experience His revolutionary love, the more I feel secure in Him alone. The more I wrestle with this life, the more urgently I feel the need to seek His purpose and perspective, to simply seek Him.

No, for me the innocent joy of a childhood Christmas slips into the wintry nights all to quickly, replaced instead with a resounding conviction that these dark nights cling to the soul, weighing it down, mocking it with jeers. As bitterness and anger, discouragement and weariness, knock wildly at my door, I will cling to the One who’s humble introduction whispers quietly to my soul.

“I am the One you yearn for, I am the One who sees, I am the One you cling to most, and the longing will one day cease. But until then, rest in Me, knowing that I miss nothing, I am the God who never flees. And although the shadows spread out like a blanket of night, seeming to hide all of the candles’ flame, fear not you weary one, the battle is hard, but the war is already won.”

The Restless Nest Tattoo

When I told my tattoo artist I wanted a tattoo this last time around, I kind of mumbled and stuttered. I wanted a mandala that looked earthy, not bling-blingy; stained-glass, but not showy; colorful for once, but not too bright. Several of the color themes we discussed were no-gos for me. Finally, we settled on the colors of a sunrise. Or a sunset. I was so confused. 

And this confusion is reflective of the rest of my life right now. Because just a week ago I was so angry at my oldest that I wanted to strangle her, almost driving off a cliff in Olympic National Park,  while driving on vacation, due to words that were shared between she and I, that could’ve caused World War III, right there, in our rental car. 

But then two days ago, after dropping her off at college, I shed tears all the way home, then sobbed uncontrollably at the silence and emptiness of the house once I walked in the door. I was mourning  that a phase of my life had come to an end, while another was yet beginning. 

This was what I had raised her to do. The last 19 years of our entwined, deeply engaged lives, have been preparing her for this moment, when she would step from the nest, spread her wings, and fly. That’s what was SUPPOSED to happen.

So why is this mama bird feeling so bipolar, one minute thrilled to have the TV recording space free of the usual 100 episodes of Spongebob, REPEATEDLY recorded by her, while in the next breath, catching my breath, because this will be the first year ever that we have to watch our favorite shows separately; in one breath rejoicing that I don’t have to feed a picky eater every night, while in the next breath hoping she eats enough to keep herself alive while working two jobs and going to school full-time; and simultaneously feeling ecstatic that my oldest child can now experience adulthood for herself, rather than through her rose-colored YouTube vlogs, while always worrying incessantly about whether she’s safe driving mountain roads by herself. 

So I don’t know what this tattoo means. In some moments it’s a sunset, one chapter of life closing; while another moment it’s a sunrise, with the new, next chapter beginning. 

I’m not sure whether it’s the stained-glass seen from the outside, our experiences blending in with millions of other families with young adult children; or whether the glass is seen from inside the darkened room, the light shining through, illuminating this moment in time as our time, our moment, where the grief and joy meet, in mesmerizing patterns of sentimentality and novelty. 

And I’m not sure whether the tattoo reflects the bling-bling of my daughters “bougie mountain” style, or whether it’s  the organic, homespun natural style of me. 

But you know what? I don’t have to choose. It can be all, or in parts, and anywhere in between. Because the symmetry holds it together. The patterns deeply outlined and etched, inked into my skin, are constant reminders that in a world of hellos and goodbyes, of joy and pain, of gift and loss, that the fabric of our lives can’t be woven without both; to have only one and not the other, would be like Van Gogh only painting with one color, or Michaelangelo simply drawing doodles on binder paper, or Beethoven simply plucking  out chopsticks. 

Ecclesiastes says that there is a time for every activity under heaven; and sometimes those moments happen in cadence, together, clinging to each other, in balance. 

And so I’m learning to value the silence while I grieve the quiet, appreciating easier menus while being ok with longing for the empty seat to be filled, and resting in the fact that I’ve more than prepared her to make her mark in this world, even while I worry sick that she’s safe while doing so. 

So this tattoo represents all of this experience, from full nest, to a restless nest. His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me. And her. 

And thank God I have two more years before I have a fully EMPTY nest. I will need a whole tattoo SLEEVE to express that moment in time.

Queen Anne’s Lace Tattoo

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My daughter was six years old the day I finally gathered the courage to leave her, and her brother’s, father. That day, with the cathartic seriousness of a therapist, my daughter turned to me and said, “Mom, I’m proud of you. You’re finally growing up. You’re finally standing up for yourself, and us.”

She. was. six.

Growing up, all I ever want to be was a wife and mom. While I was a tomboy in every other way, and I had no desire to cook and clean, I DID want to be barefoot, pregnant, and save the world. Little did I know that the world that would need saving would be the one inside the four walls of my own home, and the people most in need of rescue would first be myself, and my two young children.

Because that’s the thing about being in an abusive relationship/marriage. While in hindsight you can look back and see a million red flags pointing to the oncoming storms, at the time, you simply feel the stillness in the air, and hold your breath.

And the deeply etched heartache in the abusive context isn’t just the victim of direct abuse, but it’s the children. The little’s that everyone thinks can’t hear, can’t see, can’t possibly internalize the electrically charged atmosphere; can’t possibly remember years later, if not in conscious memory, than subconscious muscle memory, the stealth terror which froze them in their beds at night, clinging to their stuffed animals; or the stealth fear during the day at not wanting to let their abused parent out of their sight for fear that they can’t protect them; or the stealth anxiety that eats away at their childhood, clawing away the simple joys of the newness of the world, and instead replacing it with the simple and singular focus of realizing that their world isn’t safe, and how do they defend themselves, and those they love, against it?

Which pops the bubble of yet another childhood idealism for children of domestic violence relationships, that of a child being able to trust that the adults closest to them will first and foremost protect them.

That’s where this tattoo comes into play. When I left my abusive marriage, and my daughter spoke the words that have haunted me to this day, I was NOT the person I was supposed to be. And yes, I can justify and explain, and even use solid research to back up why I was an absolute mess at that time in my life. And that matters. And it’s a million conversations for another day.

But today, it’s about her. My then six year old who lived in constant fear and constant anxiety. My six year old who chose to step in the middle of me and her father, because she wanted to protect me from his blows. My six year old who hated all dark colors because they were a sign of weakness to her. Why? Because I only wore dark colors at that time in our lives, and until the day I left her father, she saw me as weak. My six year old was my emotional strength, and what kept me sane, in those early years when I felt like my world was crashing, and spinning, and destructing, before my very eyes; but she carried a burden that was not hers to carry.

And another aspect of being a child of an abusive marriage is that they struggle to know who to “align” themselves with. While they want to protect the parent that is being  hurt, the survival mechanism kicks in as well. So their young and innocent mind decides that they better draw close to the abuser, as scary as that can be, because it’s probably safer than being closer to the abused; heck, the abused can’t even defend themselves, how will they be able to protect them? Their world of clarity and truth is obscured by the dense clouds of confusion, and fraught with the discordant rhythms of a childhood that has been stolen from them.

Then, besides having to heal from all the other trauma that we lived through, once the three of us escaped the situation, another challenge confronted us. I had to earn back the right to be respected, and the right to be the authority, and the right to be the creator of a safe and trusted place…… so that slowly my daughter could learn to be carefree in who she was….. a now 7-year-old. I had no voice, no commanding motherly presence ( still working on the commanding part), and I offered very little hope. And while my love for my children was large, and wide, and deep, and overpowering, it wasn’t expressed in the language where they could sense or feel it. So I had to heal myself,  heal my daughter, heal my relationship with her, and heal our home, all under continuing adverse circumstances. Our home was no longer a war zone, but many other places were still. And I had to learn how to fight for her in those areas too.

Which means that we kinda raised each other. Which means that there have been many days when we have been more like sisters than a mother and daughter. Which means that I have worked overtime to ensure that my daughter trusts my authority, feels safe with the boundaries I’ve drawn, and is secure enough to fall apart herself, knowing that I will be there to pick up the pieces.

We were discussing tattoo ideas a couple of years ago. She turns to me and says, “mom, I think you should get a Queen Anne’s lace tattoo.” I look up at her and ask her why.
“Mom,  the meaning behind a Queen Anne’s Lace is ‘haven, sanctuary, place of safety and rest’. You have been, and are that, for my brother and I. You need to have your next tattoo be that as it tells the next part of your story,  our story. We feel safer with you than anywhere else or with anyone else, now; and you don’t understand just how important that is. My brother and I would be involved in so much s*** if it wasn’t for you and your example. ”

And once again, like the raw emotion I felt the day she was six, I look at her, stunned,  in wonder and amazement.

All those sleepless nights, all those deep conversations, all those occasional yelling matches and slamming of doors, all those days when it took all the energy I had to physically cradle her through her rages, all those times I did not back down when she challenged me, the time I believed her when she disclosed the unthinkable abuses that had been done to her……all of the underpinnings of parenting that were magnified a zillion times in our case. All… of….. it….. mattered…. All of it made a difference. All of it created a world of order from chaos, hope from despair, and peace from what started as a war zone.

There are a lot of things I’ve failed at in my life. But being a mom evidently isn’t one of them. So while others toast to celebrate, I get inked.  Cheers!

 

Reminiscing A Year Ago

A yearblog ago today, my divorce was final from the marriage that lasted less than a year….. a marriage that, unbeknownst to me, was being strangled from within before it ever even caught it’s first breath. Infidelity is the most incidious of thieves… and multiple robberies, veiled in silence, secrets, and sudden sedations, steals the very core of who you are. You find yourself grasping for anything that’s not a murky mirage. Nothing is as it seems. Nothings is what it looks like. Nothing is what you believed to be real.  I wrote this poem a year ago today. And while much has healed, and much has been restored, much remains broken. Grief changes you. And while you heal, the scars will always remain. On  International Women’s Day, to those women who choose to remake themselves whole when others have done all they can do to break them.

Ironic, or perhaps providential. Definitely a justified juxtaposition. Today, on International Women’s Day, my divorce is final.

And while I rejoice and I am relieved, I grieve and I am sobered. I laugh through my tears. I shake through my strength. I sigh through my exclamation. I celebrate through my silence.

I pause, breathing deeply, exhaling the toxins of the recent, inhaling the blossoms of the next. It’s the day of closure. The moment of the dream deferred. The door locked, key thrown away. The promise severed, ripped away. The skin scarred, marked forever. The body swelled in death’s final blow.

I don’t grieve the person, who turned out to be, no one that I ever truly knew. My heart instead aches at the need to once again be strong; the resolute one, the barrier between the war zones; the hope-filled one, the warrior one, the bearer of all prophetic news. My soul is tired and weary, and wanting to quit, my arms are heavy and laden, and dense from traversing through all the bull****.

So now, I pause. Be still. And wait. And retie my loosened threads. Now I slowly gather strength, like the slow rising of the bread. I will draw from all the storminess, the raging gales that roared, to be the eye, where calm rises, showing it’s wholly humble side. From my depths, my pain, my deep angst of what if’s, I muster courage, and focus, a resolve to transcend my fists’ tight grip. I rise. I reckon. I make the wrongs be resoundingly right.

I am woman. A she. A her that won’t quit. I am female. A daughter. A mother that won’t sit. So yes, on this women’s day, I understand the fight. I understand the rift. I understand the reasons why women’s backbones’ are curved and quick. I respect deep down the importance of celebrating the “weaker sex”. For those who aren’t valued and treated with an equitable view, the fight is not just corporate, with salaries in view. No, this fight is personal, with families in full review. My son will be raised, with honorable wit, always expecting worthy and equal women by his side. My daughter will know, that more than her shape, there is a reckoning power in her eyes.

One day, when my being quits, it will not be for naught. I will stand before God one day, as He welcomes me to his lot. He will say well done my faithful child, for though with iron you were wrought, you stayed the course, you didn’t defeat, you never caved in your pursuit. Your love for Me is how the world will know how deeply they are loved; that when the world order around Me screamed to sift the “lesser we”, I stood in quiet, stealth defense, to show Myself first to thee. And that against the violent norms of social orders of the day, I stood in stark contrast to honor women, and respect for them I will always portray.

So today, I am free. I am unshackled, I am torn. I am woman. I am warrior. Through my strength yet I will soar.

Arrow Tattoo

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“Neither seek nor shun the fight.”- Gaelic proverb

Archery is a unique experience. It is somewhat counter-intuitive in nature. You have to pull back in order to release, you have to clench in order to liberate, you have to gather  in order to set free. And hanging in the balance of those two acts is that moment of tension, of unknowing, of what some call liminal space. Liminal space is time between the known and the unknown. It is a transitional moment of intensity when we stand in the path of the unknown. Richard Rohr says that liminal space is  when we have left one room and not yet entered the next. It is that graced time when we are not certain, or in control, but when the greatest growth and change can occur.

I kind of see it as the Saturday between Good Friday and Easter morning.

I have lived much of my life the last 15 years in this space. God made it clear where I didn’t belong, but not always making it clear where I did. belong And what is it about human nature that we want that space to claim as ours? We want to draw our line in the sand and say, “This is mine. Back off.”

But in this liminal space, it’s not always clear how we are to proceed.  Conflict, by it’s very nature, is conflictual. When conflict arises, I don’t know about you, but I tend to freeze. Then sometimes I “flight”, sometimes I “fight”, and sometimes I “fawn”.

The Celtics have a proverb that says, ” neither seek nor shun the fight.” It has resonated with me since I first heard it. Because it, like the tension-spun arrow, reminds me that it is in that moment of unknowing that is often times exactly where we are meant to be. I have had plenty of experiences where I have to shun “the fight” in my life. And I have had plenty of experiences when I have had to “seek the fight” in my life. I am far more comfortable with shunning than seeking. But the reality is that, ultimately,  I am learning to be the most at peace in the “neither” part. Forego the teachings of the “neither”, and  often times you overarch the seeking, or passively underestimate the shunning.

Life often calls us to advance. But before we can do that we have to retreat and reinforce our defenses. Sometimes we have to just “be”, when we don’t even know what we are “being”. But God does. And I’m learning that it’s far more important to be where He wants me to be, then to be where I think I am. ……if that makes sense.

And when I need a reminder, I have this tattoo as a memorial stone, harkening me back to times when I DID just “be”, and how that it’s far better to be in the plans,and hands, of God, than my own.

 

 

 

 

 

Barren Tree Tattoo

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The first time I ever recall “remembering” the leaves falling from trees,

their  autumn colors catching the glint of the early fall sun,

was the day my grandpa died.

For some reason his death reminded me of a tree.

Not the tree that is in full spring bloom, with aromatic flower petals perfuming the newness of the Spring air.

And not the tree, fully swollen, offering much needed shade on a hot summer day.

No. It was the dying tree, it’s leaves crisp and crackly, colored blood red, fire orange, and burnt yellow, that cocooned me that day, much like the flannel shirts he would often wear, me beckoning him to stay.

And seeing that I was cold, he would envelop me in one of them, a thousand sizes larger than what I wore….. surrounding me also with a warm, musky scent, the remnants of the aftershave he bore.

The tree reminded me of the colors of my favorite flannel of his, with it’s warm hues of late Indian summer…

The shirt that I then wore to bed each night, until months later, the worn raggedness of it, finally, was less of a covering, than no covering at all.

….And maybe that remembrance of the autumn tree, at so early a young age, was actually preparing me for winter trees, and the unprepared  deaths that lay ahead.

Trees, stripped of their fall explosions, standing stark and silent against harsh winter skies…..

Trees that once gave so much life, but now seem to have been shuttered, would become to me,  the strongest of them all.

It’s with THESE trees that I have felt the most companionship with, the most closeness with, in my life.

Many times in my  years I’ve found myself on dark, shadowless paths; journeys that most closely resemble the depth of the darkest days, and the months that stand silent, like timeless winter trees, even amongst the gales that scream.

These are the months, where seemingly nothing lives, nothing whispers, life seems to have been snuffed out before the night.

The days where there is no rustle, no ragged breeze, not one voice to be found  in life’s audience.

The haunting beauty of a leafless tree, seemingly barren of all life, standing silent in the raging storm….it draws me in, and holds me tight, and whispers it’s ok.

The beauty of a stripped tree, standing still , is that what you see is what you get.

There are no games, no hidden cues, no foilage demanding to help hide.

There are no lies. No cover-ups. No place for shame-blamed bruises to collectively reside.

So the winter tree, so plainly seen, helps me to breathe in, and just be.

It reminds me that, when all else fades, the root is what we see.

And the roots are made, not in the blaze of summer’s inviting gaze.

But insteaed they’re made, dug deeply down, through the piercing  of the winter’s glaze.

And it was in that season, one winter, or ten, that the tree gently whispered to me.

He said, “My dear, you stood on your own, unassumingly.

And you,through blizzards and freezes quietly grew….

And the best kept truth about enduring such pain, about being so gutted and thrown askew,  is that deep inside the tree, quietly, new life hibernates anew….

And not today, and maybe not the next, for the winter season is  not yet past….

But one day, the thaw will come, and the air will be birthed warm and new.

And that tree that stands, so silently, with seemingly nothing to show…

will one day, under the weight of it’s limbs, burst with a beauty that is fresh and aglow.

So stand strong, oh leafless one, when you feel most rejected, you’re not.

For much like a cactus, who stands dry and taut, seemingly dead to the uninformed touch..

Deep in your trunk, buried beneath, far from the external swell,

your life harbors a refreshing, lifegiving, drought-quenching,  well.

 

Kiddush Hashem Tattoo

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I have always loved linguistics. Not the grammar aspect, but languages, word origins, words themselves, how languages evolved over time, how a language reflects the culture around it, dialects, accents, etc. While being the hardest language in the world to learn, and spending YEARS learning it well,  I have  had quite a bit of learning English, thank you very much.

I love learning other languages, even if I’m about 42 years past where the human brain is programmed TO learn more than one language. Fascinating to me is the fact that our brain is created to learn more than one language, but….. if we haven’t learned more than one by about age 7, while we can STILL learn them later in life, the additional brain areas used to learn multiple langauges at that time in our life, either die off, or get pulled into circulation for some other brain function. In essence, those people who learned at least one other language as a young child will forever have access to areas of the brain that those of us who only learned one language, or learned more than one later in life,  will never be privy to.

The Hebrew language fascinates me. Much like several other non-western languages, whole thoughts and paradigm perspectives can be articulated and communicated in a couple of symbols or words….. concepts that would take the English language words….. and more words….. and still MORE words…. to convey.

This tattoo means “Kiddush Hashem”. Kiddush Hashem means,  “to live in such a way as to bring glory to God among those who do not know Him. To live a life of integrity; to do some heroic deed, or to be martyred.”

Ok. So I would rather skip the martyer part. Nobody wants to prematurely die around here. But the rest of it is deeply symbolic for me.

The rest of the meaning is exactly how I’ve chosen to live my life, and how I want to continue to do so. This concept harkens from one of my favorite books in the Bible, Isaiah, specifically 65:1, where Isaiah speaks words of God that have been revealed to him,

“I revealed myself to those who did not ask for me; I was found by those who did not seek me. To a nation that did not call my name, I said, ” Here am I, here am I.”

I wrote a prayer for myself  on October 23, 2011, and posted it on my desk at work for years. It says,

“God, I pray that my life will reflect the intent of Isaiah 65:1, and of kiddush hashem. I pray that the ashes from my own brokenness will fill the air around me, like incense. And that people who don’t even know they have a need for God in their lives, and who do not seek Him in any way, and who don’t call out to Him with any voice, will come to understand, trust, and thrive in a relationship with God, simply  because I make myself a vessel through which there is less and less of me, and more and more of Him. Amen.”

So I inked this tattoo on my foot, symbolizing the desire that my hands and feet always be those that bring Good News, for the purpose of being a sampling of Jesus in human form. That my life is lived in such a way that if people meet me, and if they forget about me, they have lost nothing. But they will know, by interacting with me, that when they meet Jesus, and they forget about Him, they have lost everything.

Shalom.

Grief, Exhaled….. Tattoo

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This tattoo took me over the edge from being a person who had tattoos that were “cute”,  to a half- arm- sized tattoo on my left arm.

For a while I often wondered if it was “too” big, or “too” out there, or “too” much, quickly covering it up whenever I was around someone who maybe I  thought would judge me as having gone “too far”….

It even caught me off guard at first, startling me into thinking I had black marker on my arm from teaching…

But then…. as I’ve slowly evolved and grown as a person over this last year, this tattoo has become not only my life’s mantra, motto, but it’s the embodiment of how I’ve chosen to see life.

The impetus for me to formally verbalize my thoughts, cohesively turning them into the deeply etched phrase here, was in living through  the most recent of traumas in my life.

Without going into detail, after being a single parent for over 10 years, I remarried, only to find out that my husband of less than a year had been serial cheating on me during the entirety of my knowing him…. friendship, dating, engaged, married. To sum up one of  his mistress’s words, which he corroborated, he married me because I provided a good reputation for him, and I loved his children.

A whole different trauma. A while different betrayal. A whole different grief.

And from these ashes, these words took shape. While I created this for MY life, I choose to treat everyone who comes into my life with these life affirming beliefs as well,and pray that I can pay my pain forward, through being a vessel of transformed grace and hope.

So here is what I think….

BEAR WITNESS….Do you see injustice? Do you see abuse? Do you see oppression? Do you see evil? Don’t turn your head. Don’t shut your eyes. Don’t silence your screams. Don’t ignore the pain. Face the storm. Sound the siren. Summon the jury.

REVEAL TRUTH….The truth can’t set you free until you first unwrap it, unhide it, and uninhibit it. Truth speaks for itself. Don’t drown it out. Don’t shovel it over. Don’t bury it in and slam the door. Lay it down, and out, for all to see. Bare your naked soul. Call it for what it is. It is not YOUR burden to carry the sins of someone else. Lay blame where blame is due. And then step back, unburdened, and fret not anymore, the shadows no longer hold you captive.

HOLD SPACE…..Sometimes there is nothing to do, but sit with the grief, let the tears flow, tend to the shuddering silhouette. Grief bottled in is no mourning at all. Don’t rush. Don’t downplay. Don’t compare. Don’t rebuke. Simply……..be.   Light the candles. Rest in the refuge. Be silent in the sanctuary. Stand down.

EMBRACE PAIN……Life causes all of us pain. We either allow it to shape us, or we spend our lives fighting, as it swallows us. Before we can heal, we have to simply acknowledge it. Weakness isn’t in being betrayed, or in losing, or in being ripped apart. Weakness is in acting like it never hurt us to begin with. Let yourself feel all of the bitterness and rage. Let yourself be broken. Let yourself fall apart. Let yourself be real. It’s ok to not be ok.

CARRY GRIEF…..Never let someone tell you that you EVER heal whole again, unscarred, unblemished, unfractured, back to who you once were. You don’t. And don’t try. A part of your grief will go with you for the rest of your life. Own it. Respect it. Carry it. You are who you are because of the heartache etched on your heart. Make grief your ally so that, rather than embittering and imprisoning you, it creates a compassion for others you meet on your journey who need to know they aren’t alone. Because no one can walk this road solo. And no one is untouched by grief. And the darkness doesn’t discriminate, but it DOES fade to the corner when we light the path together.

HONOR JOY……There WILL be moments, even amidst the worst of the storms, when laughter will bubble over, the sun will beam bright, and life will kiss you with joy. Don’t downplay it. Don’t sabotage it. Don’t disgrace it. Don’t ignore it. Don’t destroy it. Don’t disown it. Honor it. No matter the cards you’ve been dealt, you’re  bound to draw an ace at some point. Hug it. Enjoy it. Grasp a hold of it. And….even if it’s just the eye of the storm, and the clouds are drawing nigh again, engrave those moments as memorial stones of what can be, what has been, and what will be again. Because the darkness and storms may rage for a night, but even the gloomiest midnight ends. And the sun comes up. And joy…..joy….. joy…. always comes in the morning.