I’ve been working Truth all week. It stings a little. I’m not a dishonest person, I’ve said to myself, the dashboard of my car, my mother. But the truth is, really, that I am not always truthful. I skirt the edges of a deep and perfect commitment to the truth mostly because it hurts a lot, sometimes, to be there, and I just don’t want to do it. So I suffer, needlessly, separated from my True Self because of my own stubborn, sly intransigence.
As I drove home the moon was incandescent off the lake. I wanted to stop and peer over the edge of the bank and take a look at my face in the light reflected and manifest a more buoyant truth for myself; something less edgy, softer, easier to absorb. But I didn’t, because I knew that no matter how inconsolable my ego chose to be, my life was meant to be lived exactly as I was living it
There’s gratitude in the begrudging acknowledgement of that impervious, irreproachable, irrefutable truth. I sigh into it; softening, accepting, bearing witness. It’s not easy, but it’s living; alive, heart broken wide-open, juicy flowing energetic me. There’s a lot of love there, swirling, co-inhering and glimmering with my truth. I think I’ll embrace it ferociously. It’s time.