Like a car horn stuck on, my heart blares. It’s just you and me kid and a world of sadness. Life doesn’t ask whether we’re ready. The cold and icy timing rips my heart sideways. My head hurts. I blink on tears. ‘Tis the same spelling for: tears that rent open our hearts and tears, the salty spells that precede and seed peace. I’m supposed to lighten up, but the fat salty pig sits down on me and glares. I smell the end of the world.
Yesterday I walked in from the night and my eyes fell on my soft green couch and bookshelf and flowers. Thank you, I said, over and over again, somehow seeing this cozy space as though for the first time.
Hello, child of God. Take a bow. Sing a song that praises everything, and then some. Cry if you need to, to loosen the bitter rocks. We’re back to this achy-breaky turpentine heart. I turn to face it full on.
None of this was supposed to happen. I thought suffering belonged in the history books. (And, hey! I was supposed to enjoy a prosperous life as a famous actress!) When you’re a kid studying atrocities, you think you’re reading about the past. But then you hear about a cat dragged behind a car and you cry for a month. Somehow, your world and the atrocities merge. You’re growing up. Welcome to reality. And yet fresh lilacs and the most amazing “coincidences” spring up like the $20 bill you find in fresh snow. What kind of place is this? You wonder.
The light comes through you and you are a prism, so you break it up into colors that filter through your own body. But then you decide that all the colors, all of them together, are the richest, and soon you’re mixing darkness. Soon you have night. And that’ when you realize that you are both what’s splendid and what’s atrocious, and always have been. But it’s only Source that is the light and the only way you can make as much of that as you can darkness is to fully align yourself with the light that comes in, welcome it, angle your entire body toward it, call its name, agree to have any imperfections in your own crystal self sand-blasted smooth, anything, anything.
But then God tickles you. Because only a vessel that is pure and clear and also doesn’t take herself too seriously can be trusted with God’s most treasured cargo: The rest of humanity that swarms around you unpredictably and in the most unusual ways.
And you never, ever know what you’re going to get: The sublime or the cruel and they’re all jangled together and your ego is a semi-automatic rifle in a small intimate club. And so God has to tickle you a lot to trust you with his people.
Ego is where you’re trigger happy. You have to let it go. Doesn’t mean you put down the weapons, exactly, but that you unfurl the mighty slam and it’s a sign that says “Pow.”
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