there are soft bodies in your life who would love to see you fail. they are not your enemies, only bodies who have forgotten the way to the Light, or perhaps they have never been shown.
fail anyway.
it only matters if you constantly wander over to the periphery of your life, feet bare on thorny ground, ignoring the weeping of your own life, the raven warning you to turn back.
your heart is always hungry for something that will ease the pain of failure, of getting yet another thing wrong.
{…and what is ‘wrong’ exactly, why do you allow it so much power?}
listen, the story is not between you and the other breathing bodies that you have allowed a rented room inside your head.
listen.
the story is between you and God, even if you don’t believe.
this is still the story of how you came to earth and was left without a real map, God kissing you tenderly on the cheek:
‘…find your way home, because this is what it is all about. i am waiting for you. the light is on and there is soup waiting by the fire… i love you more than you could ever know. see you soon, my wandering love…’
{even if you don’t believe, because God cannot be undone by what we have forgotten}
pay attention. eat carefully with your eyes. not everything that is shown to you will turn into light behind your eyes, but everything that is shown to you has meaning, has a lesson weaved within.
and those beautiful eyes of yours? always turn them inwards.
the only thing that matters is how you walk around your own life, planting and weeding, watering and nourishing.
feed yourself well.
{this is surprisingly simple to do once you know what to let go of, and what not to seek}
pay attention to your hunger.
when you are hungry, especially if your belly is rumbling with a very old hunger, one that has been passed down from one soft body to another, it is difficult to turn down anything that has been dished up for you on a plate.
liezel graham
{opinions can look like bread, and the soft-bellied fears of another, like water}
you arrived here from the Light, even if you have never been told this, even if you narrowly escaped being snatched away, being crushed.
shame can be inherited, you know, especially from bodies who have wrapped the word ‘holy’ on a tattered strip of grave-cloth.
it sticks to everything.
grave clothes are only for the dead, and you are not dead.
you are still so very much alive, so very much searching for the food that was tucked into your pocket.
grace.
and this is best part! it doesn’t run out. eat as much as you need. give it away. leave it on ledges, and park benches, and next to dumpsters.
listen, the story is not between you and the other breathing bodies that you have allowed a rented room inside your head.
listen.
the story is between you and God, even if you don’t believe.
this is still the story of how you came to earth and was left without a real map, God kissing you tenderly on the cheek:
‘…find your way home, because this is what it is all about. i am waiting for you. the light is on and there is soup waiting by the fire… i love you more than you could ever know. see you soon, my wandering love…’
sharing some words from my journal writing this week.
do you want to find your way into your own story? you are so welcome to join me at my ‘Nurture’ Writing Group.
a slow-stitcher? you will love the community around the table at ‘The Scarlet Thread, Mindfulness and Slow-Stitching Group’.
Book here, for either group, and to follow for other groups and workshops.
liezel graham 