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| The butterfly was just as much itself as a caterpillar as it was as a butterfly |
Sometimes when I
am reading something that inspires me, something that allows me to accept my
humanity, I feel a spaciousness, a sense of freedom open up, something that, if
only for a moment, allows me to accept being human and to see, not just the
limitations of this, but the beauty of this mortal existence here on
earth. It is at these moments that I am compelled
to write, to open my heart and share my experiences, my limitations, my
humanity with another, with the hope that they too, may want to continue on, to
love and accept themselves and be willing to open their hearts to themselves
and to others and explore their own beautiful, fragile humanity.
A desire to live
with this fleeting awareness on a more continual basis fills me and offers a
tease that perhaps there is more beauty, more joy, more mystery available to me
than I oftentimes am willing to admit or see.
So wrapped up in the need to have things just right, I am blinded by the
imperfections and messiness of living.
The idealism that is seated in my very soul longs for things to be, to
exist on a higher plane, when in reality the secret is to see the beauty that
exists even amongst the brokenness and imperfections of our fallen world. Yes, even the beauty in my own brokenness—the
magic and mystery in my own path and not to be hung up on what I see as less
than ideal or sense as some type of failure.
For the very brokenness that has carved such gaping holes in my life has
become the vessel that carries the essence of all that is worthwhile and is
what connects me to all who suffer.
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