Some mornings I stand on the edge of a steep knowing, a transformational space of understanding, embracing the brilliance that opens infinitely before me. Others, the land is flat beneath my feet, the same as it always was, closed off from the mystery beyond by a patch of trees, shadows, confusion. I’m fine and I’m falling apart. These are both true.
We’re all broken. But together, we’re a little more whole.
Mixed feelings are not elegant, graceful, certainly not the kind of trinket you take out to show off. They’re the scribble-scratch of the heart. We resist them: surely we’re more mature than that! We want to look away, but denying the mixed of these feelings is untrue. Unfair to the heart.
After all, life is one giant liminal between birth and death. Maybe instead of pestering the universe Am I dead yet? or napping until we die, we should live in all the liminal time and space we’re blessed with.