Cathartic

There comes a point when the whole alphabet and every number down the line raise their chins and mock me. This moment reminds me of the fever-induced delirium of childhood - one time, on Thanksgiving, when I was so disappointingly sick and missing turkey, I remember being haunted by multiplication tables doing themselves wrong in my head. No matter how hard I tried to correct the numbers, they wouldn't submit to math. 

The low points come (more sensically, less schizophrenically) from time to time, when every iota of matter seems hell-bent on making me feel invisible & insignificant. Loudly. And my instinct is to react emotionally to all the accusations cast by the walls and doorknobs and picture frames. But as I age I've begun to stop short of that. The emotion, like, asks permission to grip me... kind of diminishing its posture of authority and its power. Is this growing up? Getting to choose which emotions to feel?

The moment is strange, because, although I feel less vulnerable to the darkness, I don't quite know how to find all the light switches that light the place up enough to make me feel safe again. Crazy free and wild with carefree vitality. I know the simple answer is to shed all the shiny identities that promise to define me, and rediscover peace with the only One who can give me a name. 

Beloved. 

Beloved.

Beloved.

Everything fades with that name. With the grace of that word. And wow. Just like that, the lights are on. Part of me feels compelled to cover all the mouths trying to blow out this light. But I don't think I need to. I think I can just lean into the embrace of Truth, and allow gratitude to grip me.