Cracks

The crisp smell of Autumn leaves- just beginning to crumble and dry in late September- filled my lungs as I pedaled my bike through the Beacon streets, finally arriving at the waterfall. I watched   as a wedding party gathered across the way, and sat down on the yellow bench to journal beside the creek.  Teenagers played by the creekside falls, skipping rocks, and shouting "congratulations' at the couple across the way.  In the year and a half since I first sat on that bench, it had grown faded- no longer golden, but pale yellow, paint peeled and graffiti and weather written. 

But today, sitting on that bench, breathing- just breathing- I returned to balance. And just like that day in January last year, I prayed "Lord, make me an instrument of your peace." And just like that day, I felt the healing presence, the restoration of wholeness, the movement toward peace.

It seems this entire year has been characterized by profound brokenness and shadow work- more than I'd like to admit to most observers, or perhaps even to myself. I want to believe that this journey is not one of set-back after set-back or merely ups and downs along a linear line, but rather a gradual cracking of the shell from which the soul's new life emerges.  And I do believe, have witnessed and experienced the journey to wholeness, even as I have fallen apart and also experienced brokenness along the way.  

And is the shell breaking, and the little chick emerging?  Are the honest confessions I have made the past two days part of that breaking?  Will it get easier-- now that I have broken open and broken down-- on the phone walking the path with the old stations of the cross (a woodside confessional), or in my boss's office?

It seems I am prone to dramatic breakings- the egg shells shattering, splattering.  Others might do well with the subtle, gradual opening.  My own though happen quickly, when at their height, and so- a week of crying in desperation, and now it is over.  

Now, I am here- and the discernment is clear.  What I need to do is clear and peace is possible: to take care of myself, to reduce my hours in the office, and to move more fully into this new work I am called to do.  And to speak truly and honestly these words aloud. 

But beside the waterfall, I know.  There is real peace in the decision-- and a joy so deeply felt that I can step forward confidently in this new direction.  It took five days of constant crying and eventually letting go of pride to admit that I cannot do it all.  That I must take care of myself and limit my hours at work-- sooner rather than later.  That I must be honest about my limitations-- and that I must find in my limitations, real joy.  Real peace. Real healing. Real space for the soul to take flight.