The years-long stress stored in and binding my neck vertebrae. The chords of “keep-pushing” running like ropes down my back, shrinking the length of my left leg and causing my hips to be so out of whack I compensate and create further curvature of my spine. My knees and feet, the beneficiaries of 18+ experimental surgeries to help my clubbed feet straighten and my dislocating patella stay as stable as they can possibly be. My chest, in the center, from worry, creating reflux by reflex. My head, sitting atop all this body which is certainly keeping the score. My quarry factory kidneys, so used to crystalizing stress and sending me the punishment I deserve for holding it all in. My swollen and full knuckles from hard work and bad habits.
My heart, so tattered and battered I am more used to it bruised and bleeding than not. My mind, so full of how to rebuild and breathe again, it’s noise of the current so loud it crowds out the weeping child within. My memories, forced down so deep – both good and bad – so as “not to be bothered.” My hopes and relationships, so dashed at the bottom of the canyon, the scattered pieces could never join together again.
The abundant life promised is nearing and pressing further in. The heart which has been touched again and is breaking the scabs to grow larger, as intended. The mind, quietened by rest and stillness previously shunned. The soul, so expansive it has become its own separate globe. In which planet do I reside? Seas, peaks, valleys, deserts, wildlands, badlands, lush and dark forests, golden prairies lined with the paths of growth, movement, and survival left behind by the ancient buffalo now long hunted out of existence, the streams of still and still flowing water, the canyon floor looking up to the dizzying cliffs above. The pieces of me scattered and awaiting no one, attended by no one. Until now …. Yet, this is not a puzzle to be placed together. Rather, these are the pieces of me from many stories, over many years … and seeming lifetimes. Recognizing shards of them, others I cannot make out. From years, in fact, a lifetime of experiences.
I begin walking carefully among them. Darning not to crush them further. I am selective. Hospitable me. Loving me. Passionate me. Angry me. Courageous me. Sad me. Serving me. Avoiding me. Self-medicating me. Compassionate me. Empathetic me. Nonjudgmental me. Self-compassionate me. I take some and I leave some. I suppose they had to be broken, as it was the only way I could release the authentic parts of myself cemented with and given away to others. I place the selected shards in my worn leather pouch and move on up through the canyon to my ascent. I am spiraling upward.
Yet, the pieces of me inside the pouch begin to rub against each other, protrude, fight for the sealed-off light. Some tear through and slice my legs and back. Aren’t these the pieces of me I wanted to salvage? Aren’t these the “good” pieces of me? Why do they hurt? I thought I left the pain behind. I thought I left. I thought. I … am here.
I must acknowledge the pain, for it has become so much a part of me, I am desensitized to it and don’t even recognize it until others do in me. My limp, my rubbing of my head and face. These are just some of my tells. To ignore them is to ignore the green pasture made for me. It is to ignore the still water in which I can see myself clearly and even drink to slake my forever thirst. I’m going to camp out here a bit.
LPB 5/25/2026
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