To bless the weary heart...
To bless the wounded, weary, world-torn Heart, I feel the need to find myself in its midst. To enter into darkness and submerge myself in hopelessness, to feel the weight of the world, aimless as one bereft of light to follow, or guide to lead them, or companion to relieve the breaking of their bruised and battered neck.
And to enter takes almost nothing at all at the same time it takes everything I have. To sink is effortless and to feel the weight of drowning somehow comfortable. But to emerge with words of inspiration, or of some half-true hope for healing, takes more effort than my arms have ever trained themselves to muster. I realize, in the din and overwhelm of deep, that I was never truly out of it. I have never truly left. Unable to swim I have taught myself to breathe underwater and pretend that this is where my home has always been. Only, it is the surface and the light I long for. And it is the deep that disconnects me from the land where hearts are gaily going about their ignorant bliss... we, down here, who have learned what breathing feels like without air, cannot afford the same ignorance. We are crowded here as well. A city of cynics and empaths. We feel everything, because water does not disappear as air pretends to. When we move, it is water that glides across our skin, fills our noses and our ears, shifts and sloshes in our mouths and in our shoes, ripples to the edge of someone else who cannot know from whence *this* ripple came. There is no silence, but all music and laughter is muffled. There is no stillness, but dancing is harder than before. Resistance is all we know now, and we see how it tortures and how it inspires and how it overwhelms and how it strengthens. We are all here for different reasons. We are all aware of what's at stake. And I have never left because - well I don't know. But to bless the wounded, weary, world-torn heart, I needn't travel very far to be right there in its midst.