Tell Me Of You & Let Us Share Our Naked, Sacred Selves, Darling.
Tell me of you.
The real you.
Not the you that is busy or the you that is fine, or the you that is shown to the world, dressed in layers of response-ready and smile-easy.
We can do that, of course, but that talk is small, and I want to be big, I want to see the you who is bigger, and I want to know the you who wonders and questions and struggles and needs.
I have wonders and questions and struggles and needs too, darling.
Would you care to know what is in my heart?
We glorify our busy as if taking care of ourselves were a sin too great for words: things are busy! I have so many things going on, xyz to do, I can barely keep my head on. Even Yoga has become part of my to-do.
What I would do to hear that things are happy! I spend the day reading and drinking tea. I ended in a restorative shape that fed my soul and made my body sing, daydreaming of what happened to the characters in my book after it ended.
Most troubles will wait. Most worries can be put on pause.
Stress never goes away; why build it a home when it is a constant traveler?
Travel light, dearest.
The burden that you carry is often heavy, and the load that you bear has been packed by no one but yourself.
Take stock of what you have packed. What, do you care to not travel with any further?
Let it go.
What have you created space for now?
We paint over our struggles, afraid to show our hearts, worried that we will be judged, and often, we will be.
But darling, I want you to know: if you show your heart, you may be judged, but you will be blessed.
For in sharing your heart, in daring to bare your secret self, you create the possibility that more of us may undress, may come forward, may discard the heavy layers of shame and stigma and lift our faces, ready to be seen and known for our naked selves.
Tell me of when you have tried and triumphed; tell me, too, of when you have tried and failed. Tell me of your hopes and dreams and of the time you didn’t get what you wanted and what happened instead.
Did life turn out how you planned?
Time is an amorphous thing; some days it speeds up, shuffling us along like holiday shoppers, while on others it is slow and sticky, gelatinous as honey, and I feel that I can pick up moments and play them back again like on my own movie screen.
The words float over heads, drift around street signs, and sometimes dash right across faces and burst out of mouths. These messages are too urgent to wait, too needful to be read.
I long for a world where our words flow unburdened from our hearts and out of our mouths — welcome as sunshine and ready as spring, warm as that first May day.
I want to know: tell me of the stories you keep, the words of your secret heart, the hopes and dreams and fears, the triumphs and losses and loves that you carry.
Tell me of you, darling.