I contain secrets, sorrow, joy, regret, wonder, darkness, light —
These threads connect me — with small filaments — to all people who have ever lived. I understand what it means to suffer. I understand exhilaration. I understand anger, humiliation, brokenness.
So much inside of me needs to spill out, needs to find its way into the water of the world.
An astrologer once told me, “The world needs your gifts.”
I am a way shower and a scribe and a guide. We all are.
I have connections to the goddess, the wounded child, the magical child, the wicked witch. I was born to tell unvarnished truths.
“The treasure house awaits you in your own being.” ~ Rumi
Pushed out of my mother’s body onto a path that was already laid out, I arrived with the stories I’d tell, the songs I’d write — with all my creative projects already squirming and swirling inside of me. All this was written long ago.
I came here beckoned by angels. I came at the insistence of my spirit, no matter how reluctant my small ego was. It was imperative that I find my way to this place where so much would open and flower. This was the place. This was the space where I could finally be me. This particular place had just what I needed.
There are no accidents.
The world can be kind.
Portals are constantly opening.
There never will be a time when I am boxed in. I can open a window in my life simply by showing compassion — to myself or to someone else.
I contain stories that reach back into numinous darkness, into the wombs of my mother, grandmother, great grandmother. We are woven together with red thread, creosote and bone, birds, branches: all that looms above and below me.
What does all this implore me to do?
Should I tear my flesh open — a pomegranate spilling jewel-like seeds?
Tie my threads to the threads of others? Take root or wing?
If I trace the invisible river of my life back to its source, I find I contain everything that ever was and everything that ever will be. I am fully, authentically, mysteriously, exactly who I was born to be.
All the bruises, disappointments, accidents, incidents and alliances had a purpose.
There is nothing I cannot forgive. There is nothing I cannot release.
I am a glittering bird riding currents of warm wind. I am looking down at the desert floor as it tucks in for winter, absolutely ready to try the first window I find ajar.
I contain much. We all do.
May we bloom big, loudly, and with joy, wherever and whenever we find solace. May we never be afraid to be ourselves.
© 2012 Shavawn M. Berry All rights reserved
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