Today, sweet compline,
can you experience the light
that is yours?
The wholeness of who;
to have passion;
a nearness held Close?
Allowing the collision
of love as an invasion
into your life?
In the early middle night,
she grasps allowing life to be.
reaching forward;
Hidden by her own protections
today needs no justification;
smiles and griefs,
her anger and joys
living in the wetness of her breath.
Lies drenching from every pour
as truth becomes her way.
waiting.
breathing.
she sweats away time,
melting the swelter
within her soul.
CKS
I wanted to see the grace I know is there. It is just that some days I am plain worn out. I am sure you know those type of days, because I believe we all have them no matter where you are in your life journey or season.
Sparked by an invitation to participate in a very cool project called #passtheblackbook. Where many artists of all levels and backgrounds etc. were coming together creating art in one digital sketchbook using Sketchable, a very cool drawing software for Surface PCs. Here is a link to check it out and learn more: Pass The Black Book
I began drawing on my page, and one layer led to the next and the next and. . . you get the picture. And what grace in this time with no great time limit, and the gift to be where I am, in the space I am in.
Let’s face it. I just have not been feeling my best lately. I just said to a friend today that I felt like my sparky spark is not so sparkly right now, and that I need to refill my glitter tank.
And that is okay. Not that long ago, I apologized as I do often for my state of being. I said to my hubby, “I am sorry for being a bump on a log.” He replied quite simply and lovingly, “You are fine, just the way you are.”
I pause now days when I find myself wanting to apologize. What am I really apologizing for? I have no idea. Just something ingrained in my existence. To apologize for my existence.
That I have no right to breath. That I am lazy and I should be better; do better. and not wanting to get in trouble.
This is a ghost of my life experience. The ghost of being the sexual play toy of very sick people as a little girl and growing up. This is the ghost of not knowing I was anything more than property. The ghost of fear.
I speak slowly because I wish I could come up with another word. It took years to curb my desire to ask permission for every single movement or action.
May I make a phone call. May I get something to eat. May I go to the bathroom. Somehow the ventilator and its programmed breaths can ping itself to a time when I was told how many breaths per minute I was supposed to breath to be appropriate and being punished if I did not breath appropriately.
Somehow pinging back to not wanting to get into trouble and wanting to say no, all at the same time. “I am in control. I will be in control. You don’t own me.”
Nope.
Funny how much you can frolic along life and wham! A ghost pops up beside you without even realizing it.
There are just those things so ingrained in our experiences that they walk with us from time to time.
Funny to me how often in this season of my life, as I walk with grief and joy in the flowers of illness and a failing body; funny how often I am walking with ghosts of my experiences past. popping up here and there in ways I never imagine.
What do you do with your ghosts?
I do as I always have done, I draw out the ghosts. We dance in paint and charcoal. They show me such grace in their existence. Show me so many beautiful ways of being. I show them it is safe to be who they are.
How I live now. The love of my family, my friendships, and acquaintances. The fullness of laughter, and true joy.
The okay-ness of being right where I am. With this, one action at a time, I see life in a different way. An action of rest. An action of a dish being washed. An action of stillness in the flowers.
It doesn’t mean the sparkle instantly beams on high, but it does comfort the fear; and gives it rest.
Please, enjoy this meditation, The Grace of Our Ghosts, resting in practice of being.
paint much love, always,
Connie Karleta Sales
a.k.a. This Crooked Little Flower