My veil has always been thinner on Sundays, even as a child. I just feel softer inside. A warm and sleepy quality where God finds his way in with the ease of breath. And he’s been waiting for some time for this opportunity to remind me again that nothing’s changed between us while I was away. I don’t have to feel shame for starting over; but new skin is pink and fragile and that is my heart tonight.
I’ve failed so many times. But he just stares back at me from my bed pillow and waits for me to see the thread between us so I’ll stop trying to explain myself.
You can’t hide forever, he says. The seed and the flower alike pulse with my life. The bloom begins before you see it, “though sometimes it is necessary to reteach a thing its loveliness, to put a hand on the brow of the flower and retell it in words and in touch it is lovely, until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing.” An excerpt from Galway Kinnell’s, “Saint Francis and the Sow.”
I’ve always assumed a blessing can only be given by another, but don’t I count? Maybe I’ve lacked imagination in this. Shouldn’t I be the first in line to invoke God’s favor upon myself. I think he has the right to know I want it. But it’s even more than want. It’s necessary participation.
And damnit, I want my one day at a times to have more meat on it than mere survival.
I changed my tagline on this site today to read: It is never too late to become what you might have been.
Our might have beens are seeds too. I think I’ll put mine in the ground and give it what it needs for once in my life. Feed it water, not wine. Some sunlight wouldn’t hurt either.
No matter the fear I wrestle with everyday, I know something tonight that I’ve never known in any sobriety attempts prior: I cannot bear the thought of leaving this life and my loved ones with a might have been. That carves a hole in me bigger than even alcohol did.
I’d say that’s a damn good start 40 days in.