The Rising

The moon, she hangs low in an auburn sky tonight.

Almost like she's ashamed.  Or burdened.

Or burdened by her shame.

The blush around her deepens into the color of despair.  Fades to black.

Stars, points of light piercing through, they decorate her backdrop.  They are only bits of light, though, and she has the center stage.  She is the bright one.  She is the one who catches my eye.

But she bows so low tonight.

And she reminds me of you, my dear.  How you come to me with tears because she doesn't like your hair or he called you a name or you wish your ears were different.  You hang low, burdened and ashamed.  Battered by the words you have let name you and the names you have given yourself.  And I know the burden is not a joke and the shame feels like shackles, but I want you to be free so bad.  All my words, all my analogies, all my witticisms -- I am trying to pull aside the veil, to expose the facade and show you that it's just a puny, weak man, after all, who is screaming through a microphone into a big voice that shakes the room, "Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain!!"

Because I have lived too long bowed low.

Too long bound by shame and burdened by names.  And that passion to set the captives free is so hot inside my soul, I swear there must be blisters on my heart. (thanks, Rich)  It consumes and never says "enough."  It  is holy and good and pure, but not safe.  No, no.  God forbid that we ever think of the Holy as safe.

Because even fire itself is a tricky thing, no?

Sometimes it burns the one who wields it.

Tonight I watch the moon and I feel the singe.  Truth and passion don't get me very far when you aren't ready for an answer yet.  They only separate us, don't they?  Make you feel like a project when you just want a mama to listen to you.  When you want a mama to draw out your heart and be safe for its bleeding and hear all your words and hold that head, bowed low.

Bear with me, child, as I grow into this mama heart.  One that steps outside of myself and my own voracious life.  To make room for you.

For your needs, your hurts, your thirst to be quenched.

yes.  forgive me, child, for i have sinned.

But.

After awhile, when we've lingered in the tears and the pain and we've mourned the loss for which your heart is broken, and we've died to all the dreams and the dawn seems never to come again, can I whisper something to you . . . ?

Will you walk with me to the window?

There we will look out at that other heavenly body, our sister moon, as she hangs low.

There I will tell you how much you resemble each other, both more beautiful than you know.

And then?  Can I wrap you up and tell you what I know that I know that I know?

I'll whisper it soft, now, in the curve of your sweet pixie ear,

my finger tenderly lifting your dimpled chin:

"Ever so slowly, she's rising."



Linking with  Nacole, Lauren, Mindy, Heather, Ann, and 
Emily -- where we are writing on the word "light."