Sitting out here in the wind, the dancing trees, a peace washes over me and a sadness. I feel the fear of merging with that which annihilates me—the powerful force of creativity moving through me—and simultaneously the longing for it, because what is annihilated is the illusion of the small self, the separate me.
I feel the balm of poetry moving through me, the longing to write words, the healing they offer. Yet later, those same words will come to seem so inadequate, will become a thorn bleeding me with my own judgment, the same flower that offered salvation.
How painful to let myself go in that world of creation. No small wonder we avoid and distract. This two-edged sword is my deepest grace, my harshest measure.
Allowing You to flow i feel most like my true self, i feel the oneness. Flowing You into the world, sharing my words, i cast myself upon the rocks of rejection, doubt, criticism. What paradox. Sharp thorns, blood-red rose.
Photo of rose petals by Jeri Johnson.
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