My evening yesterday was largely filled with digging things out of cabinets and shelves for a yard sale my in-laws are having this weekend.
My skin stained from years upon years of dust built up on the forgotten and unused. My fingers stained from marker, pricing our possessions that at one time possessed us.
Staining marking the opening of grasped hands and the letting go.
My hands and arms have become more and more over the last year a canvas for paint & gesso, markers & ink.
Another opening. Another letting go.
Hands & heart grasped so fiercely closed.
This life I long to live so so closed off to the sense of touch, the act of feeling.
With pain and ink I do my best to crack open this hardened and roughened shell. To open my heart that has grown painful from the atrophy it’s learned while being so clenched.
These feathers that I’m attempting to unfurl, these wings I’m longing to put to use, there’s been pain in the opening. There’s been pain in the choice to use them and not continue to sit in my pain on the ground. Pain in letting go of my need to feel justified in my anger & bitterness. In my self pity.
Yet, the opening has been healthful & good.
My friend Elora terms it “Playing in the pain”. It’s the living it out in the midst of agony of redemption and sanctification.
And there is beauty there.