I spent three coveted days with myself, as I sat in the presence of my closest friend. She listened, asked questions, and looked for deeper truths, what meanings lay beyond the obvious emotion or habitual response.
As we sat around the fire she made a comment that she was confused when we used to spend pleasant days together in Chicago, and when talking with others, I would retell bits as traumatic. As she spoke, I froze and my mind fought to find the shut down button. I breathed hard and accepted the words. I tend to turn life into a dramatic debacle, even on the trip creating a list of what went wrong, no poles, rain, cold temps, etc. I began to ponder what telling the ugly version of my life might be about.
I change my stories to fit my audience. I also lie to everyone in the process. The stress of being exposed for my shifting perspectives hit hard as her words settled inside. My scripts spin like a kaleidoscope that doen't know when to stop. Thankfully, Melissa has spent a long time learning how to stop, and she helps me to do the same. We are able to sit in the pondering, in what Aquinas says in an end good, that of knowing. I want to know and share my stories consistently.
I sometimes wonder what to talk about, especially if everything is great. Do people fall asleep at a story of a wobbling liquid surface, soft sand and little boys trying to dig themselves under it. I gravitate attention towards stories of bee stings, falling off bikes and scraped up faces.
But God knows the truth (and so do close friends). I am hoping to just notice what is happening today. Hoping to see what my mind settles on, outside of organizing itself around someone else's life. I want to hear my voice, hear God's. To place everything else in my pockets to be sifted later. I want to let go of my defensive strategies, and capture the energy in Melissa's voice as she photographs a 38 foot sailing boat that might become her new home. Our conversations gravitate towards grasping aliveness and considering the threat posed by carbon dioxide. I go to sleep with my neighborhood looking dark, my boys breathing heavily, my unmade calls and chores in a pocket and rest knowing Melissa loves me both as I am today and for who she sees me becoming as she dreams up bigger living. Thank you God for showing up to reveal your love through her!
1 comment:
Thank you so much for this post--the time was a coveted gift for me, too, and I loved the blessed days with our magazines and books spread out before us in the wind, your boys buried beneath sand or napping beneath towels, and even the traumatic stories, like the rain, that ended up being blessings. This post is a gift to me personally, that made me tear up, even though it also pains me that my truth wounds you... Another quote, from Brene Brown, who may be my new favorite theorist: "A friend says: all right, let's do this thing. I'm with you. I've been there, too. Let's talk it out."
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