It wasn’t that I couldn’t hold it. It was that I couldn’t carry it. I could hold it static, talk myself into the value of its weight. But to take a step and then another. I could not find the strength to do that.
So I thought it was just the latest thing. Whatever it was that I was holding most recently. It’s just that I can’t hold that one thing. So I would put it down and try again. Something else would be easier.
Something else was never easier. Over and over I tried. And still I couldn’t take that first step. I couldn’t hold the weight of it, any of the many its, and putting them down, one after another meant I couldn’t turn and go back, the path littered with the failure to move, burdened.
The way around them began to be words, words could fit in between and around the unforgiving stones left behind.
The words became letters, the letters became honest. I’m sorry, those letters spelled. I didn’t know how to stay, how to love, unguarded. How to leave gracefully.
I’m sorry for believing I needed to.
This path to wholeness was part living it, and part writing about it. As the words become lines and paragraphs and posts I am learning what it meant. A timeless non consecutive wandering, a road, winding and long and lined with younger versions of me waiting to speak. It is simple and honorable to write what they say.