... so that lots of birds can find rest in our branches... shade from the scorching sun.
Tuesday, May 26
Once, I wrote how life seems to be about times of scattering the parts of ourselves out across space and time and then, in turn, gathering them back again only to throw them once more.
Today I realized the heaviness I carry in the past few weeks is a symptom of my gathering back again. I have to gather. I have to collect myself back again. But it's not easy. It's not comforting. It's tempting to let in the assault of regret and embarrassment, even sorrow and loss penetrate my already soft heart. But truly, they have no place here.
Sometimes, like this time, it means that I'm walking carefully up to others, and gently taking back that piece of myself I once offered, or that they took. With wide wondering eyes, they're usually reluctant. But then... so am I. It's not a mistake to give it away. For everything there's a season. I don't always stay. Not everyone can always keep that piece of me that's become so familiar to them. I walk away sometimes because it's how the creatures work. I give and take. You do too.
The hardest part is to know what's left when I've taken back myself. See, I can never have it all-the-way back. I'm a creature of memory, so some things always stay given, and others always stay taken. And when the gathering begins and ends, what is left of the relationships that changed? They are now new, uncertain. Maybe I'll give again. Maybe the same part of me. Maybe a different one. Maybe I won't.
But... I'm aware once more, and so I'm gathering once more. Sometimes I can't get the losses out of my heart. I can't stop feeling them, thinking about them. But they come in turn. One and then another and another, then the first again. Gathering is weary work. But it's the way we stay alive, in every way.