To Ry
This morning on the phone, you asked me if it was hard for me, the day of the fateful white stick with the blue line...
Well.
*Deep breath*
Here's how I feel about it. I'm sure you know it all already, but since it's much easier to say it to someone else than to oneself, I think I'd better write it down for posterity. You can remind me to read it to myself in a...while.
It takes patience and acceptance.
You wait for the promise to arrive or wait to understand why it was returned to the Sender. You accept that nothing and everything will change violently. You'll be a hundred women in one, and some of them will have teeth. You might be any age you've been, on any given day.
It takes serenity and surrender.
You learn to cry, to laugh, to be frightened and delighted like one of them. You give a pulsing piece of your heart up to a residence outside yourself-in a tiny, helpless leaf of a frame. You make yourself willingly vulnerable.
It takes humility.
Find and be found, see and be seen...it's what everyone wants. You retreat a little, set a couple of your identities afloat, and become a home.
It takes love.
But that's the effortless part. It wells up of its own artesian accord-all fierce and primitive and overpowering. You say, "Welcome and make yourself comfortable. I'll be your nurture as long as you stay, and love you for longer."
You're a home for a miracle.
I have it on dependable authority that Jesus thinks you're incredible, and I admire you.
Well.
*Deep breath*
Here's how I feel about it. I'm sure you know it all already, but since it's much easier to say it to someone else than to oneself, I think I'd better write it down for posterity. You can remind me to read it to myself in a...while.
It takes patience and acceptance.
You wait for the promise to arrive or wait to understand why it was returned to the Sender. You accept that nothing and everything will change violently. You'll be a hundred women in one, and some of them will have teeth. You might be any age you've been, on any given day.
It takes serenity and surrender.
You learn to cry, to laugh, to be frightened and delighted like one of them. You give a pulsing piece of your heart up to a residence outside yourself-in a tiny, helpless leaf of a frame. You make yourself willingly vulnerable.
It takes humility.
Find and be found, see and be seen...it's what everyone wants. You retreat a little, set a couple of your identities afloat, and become a home.
It takes love.
But that's the effortless part. It wells up of its own artesian accord-all fierce and primitive and overpowering. You say, "Welcome and make yourself comfortable. I'll be your nurture as long as you stay, and love you for longer."
You're a home for a miracle.
I have it on dependable authority that Jesus thinks you're incredible, and I admire you.
posted by Elaina at 1:58 PM
4 comments:
Aw, El!!! that piece touched my heart so much! thank you.
i will always have to remind myself of how much strength it takes to become a mother to a newborn all over again, and this letter you wrote will always encourage me. i looove you!!
Elaina, did you compose this? It's really quite amazing. I'm incredibly impressed.
Thank you, Sunny!
Well said.
You know you hardly ever post, but when you do it's worth the wait.
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