open your hands

At times, the feeling is so strong, I can feel my nails digging into my palms. But when I look down at them, they are open; not clenched. My own eyes deceive me, because my mind's eye still sees that there is something I'm holding.

"What I see is that you are holding tight to something," the priest said to me. He was a stranger; a confessor at a conference that I would never see again. Yet he understood my heart in a way that was eerie, comforting, and challenging. "In order to receive, you must let go. I get the impression what you are holding is your gift; something meant to be shared that you are afraid to show. You must open your hands to let it flow out of you. Otherwise, you will be unable to receive more to give." Like the servant with the single talent, I hold tight to what is most me out of fear of losing myself.

On those few occasions when I have managed to open a finger or two to the view of a trusted few, what shines forth between us is indescribably beautiful. In those precious moments, I feel invested, encouraged. Safe.

But they are few and far between.

I feel the pressure of whatever it is that I am gripping. I look down at my hands on my lap, on the table, or hanging by my sides, and there is nothing there, but I know that is a lie. I'm holding, tightly, to something that is not mine. Not something worldly, but something that's been entrusted to me to give to the world. I feel unable, unworthy, and I hold on. Waiting until I know I am in the right place -- and knowing also that there is no knowing. There is trust.

Lord, if I let go...
"When you let go."
Lord, when I let go, what will happen?
"You will be held."
Lord, when I let go, if you hold me -- when you hold me -- I will be helpless. I will feel helpless.
"You will be helped. You will be held."
To what am I holding so tightly? It's something in my heart, and the thought of letting it go -- it isn't that it scares me; it eludes me. I look at my hands and it isn't there, but I can feel its weight, its gravity. The need to loosen its grip on me, and mine upon it, is visible, tangible, obvious.
How do I let go? How do I open up to receive?
"Just do."

"Let go. Receive."

Perhaps I need to rethink letting go; what it means. As long as letting go means giving up in terms of sacrifice, I may not see progress. I may not be willing to take the chance. I will be held. I will be caught if I fall; swept up into arms of Love. Embraced and soothed for as long as is necessary. Forever. How do I let go? How do I open my fists to set free my being? What is this last thing I cannot release?

limitless possibilities

The air in the room was thick with chocolate; as the door opened, the aroma emerged as a presence. Standing amid the display cases filled with delectable treats, she inhaled the atmosphere. "What do you want?" he asked her. Gazing through the glass, she was surprised by the question. Who had ever asked her this before? Had she ever heard the question?

Could she answer?

"What do you want? Pick something."

Her eyes lingered on the confections, deeply inhaling and imagining the flavor, the texture of each. "I can't bite this. I can't chew that." Aware of her aching jaw; the numbness in her gum and lip.

"I didn't ask what you can't have. I asked what you want to have. Choose something. Whatever you like." His insistence surprised her; brought to life something previously dormant. She looked around, narrowing her choices, almost watching herself from outside. Her mind's eye saw pieces fitting together: smell, sight, desire -- and a realization that she was about to be treated, "spoiled," indulged. Unused to the mix of feelings, she was about to, out of habit, allow the moment to pass with a murmured, "Nothing, thank you," when another voice interrupted her reverie. "Which are you getting?" the second voice asked.

"That one looks good," she said, sounding rather vague even to herself. He spoke again, "So one of those, and what else. Pick another." Suddenly she realized she quite literally was a kid in a candy store, and for a moment, all of it was hers. She could choose anything. She needed only to believe it possible. More definitively she said, "I'd like that, too." She watched in amazement as the treats were bagged and paid for, still unsure of their final destination. Her belief from a moment before flagged....but remembered; imprinted on her heart and nurtured when later she found the bag at her place at the table, the contents undisturbed, unadulterated.

And she began to feel alive.

blessed beyond measure

I am learning to see the distinction between being alone and being isolated. Last weekend, I visited - no, I lived, in a very true sense - with friends I met in school. In school online. Friends who are without a doubt family to me. Never in my life have I been so cared for, loved, comforted, or at ease. What struck me tonight as I finished my run was the fact that even during the times when I was alone inside my head, I felt at home. Not once did I feel left out, despite being the only unattached party (my friends are two married couples). In fact, their moments alone as couples within the proximity of our little group were inspiring, heartwarming, and so very comforting.

There was no hurrying or rushing anyone. In fact the only tense moment came when I was asked a question and offered a response that even I saw as especially vague. In a flash I learned what it is to have feet put to the fire! I answered definitively - the answer I really wanted to speak in the first place - and we were on our way. 

Juxtapose this with the times I was isolated, set apart, cajoled for my inherent need for a few minutes alone. Isolation is painful; whereas aloneness is refreshing. Isolation that is forced is downright abusive. 

I am stronger today than I was a week ago when I was packing. I am home again with a promise from my friends that they will continue to love me, to encourage me, to understand me. Perhaps the understanding is the most wonderful thing, as it is a mixture of all the rest. It includes the promise to call me out on poor choices, setbacks, downright stupidity. I love them. They are my family, having common experiences, shared memories, related humor, deep faith - differing in doctrine and practice, but significantly similar in strength. They love my kids, and are appreciative of my work, my talents, my flaws, my quirks. Never have I felt so comfortable in a room full of my peers. 

I am. I am alive. I am thankful. I am more. Not despite, but because. I am worth more than many sparrows. I am never going to forget that. 

almost empty

I went for a run today. I've been running quite a bit again lately. Wondering, actually, why I really took a break from it. The answers to that are myriad. Complicated. Maybe even irrelevant. My runs lately are a break. A time to refocus my mind, body, and energy so that I can clean out cobwebs in my mind. I begin my run with a prayer - a conversation with St Sebastian, the patron of athletes. I ask him to run with me, to encourage me, to push me to work harder or to rest as appropriate. I then pray my way through three miles, generally the rosary. Two rosaries, to be specific. My training tool, as it were.
The last two times I've gone out, today and Friday, my route was blocked, quite near the beginning. I had to change direction, determine the course on the go. Be satisfied - delighted, actually - by the unexpected change in plans. Friday the variation was slight, but added a quarter mile to my run. Today, I changed the route entirely when I came to the blockade.
Another unusual similarity in my treks: both days I had someone pull up and ask me directions. Simple things in both cases, the same direction, really. "Continue straight ahead and you'll be there." Very grateful faces looked back at me. Both times I gave the directions out of breath, sweating, and red-faced from running. Both times as they drove off I wondered about crossed paths.
My run today became a walk home when tight muscles and raw emotions combined to draw me to contemplation. As I let myself catch my breath, the roadblock - a bridge out on a path through the park - those asking directions, and a text I saw this morning came to mind and worked their way into my thoughts, the more conscious ones. I found myself encouraged to continue where I'm going. To trust my instincts because they are being led by Love, and to guard myself against any idea that I am either on my own, or able to make my way on my own. I am not my own light. I am, however, guided by a Light that will never fade.
There was a season when I ran from. All my running was to leave something behind. Eventually my running evolved into running to; an effort to reach or find something for which I was searching. Something that turned out to be both inside and outside of me. After I returned home, watching TV with my kids, I realized I am in this season running with. I hope I remember to continue that way, regardless of the detours.