The Quiet Season

I'm pretty broken right now.  Filtering through old hurts and wounds, trying to recover from the last six months - it's funny to me how strange I feel now on a daily basis.  My brain just runs and runs and runs, trying vainly to make sense of the weird, hotpot of chaotic emotion under my ribs.

Blatantly, I can't fix me. 

(I'd actually hate to see myself try!  Shaky handed and idealistic, I'm certain my attempt at self guided surgery would go entirely awry.) 

No, God keeps control of all ultimate healing.  Surgeons cut and sponge and stitch, but at the end of the day, they can only draw the skin together, and wait for nature/God to work that cellular, knitting magic for which the human body SHOULD be famous.  I like to think about how He's involved in all things medical, no matter what we believe or who we think He is.  We can't heal the psyche.  We can't make broken bones whole.  We can only make things comfortable, draw flesh together, and encourage the patient to lie still.


And so, I can't fix me, but I can cooperate with the healing process.  I can sit outside in the sunshine and just listen, just rest.  I can make time to write and write and write, and listen to as much music as I possibly can.  I can sleep when I'm exhausted, careful to choose only the most snugly soft blankets for my bedding.  I can spend time watching the stars, letting the reality of vulnerability wash over me.  I can go for long walks with friends and share the random thoughts that have surfaced in the last weeks.  I can let people in.  I can ask for help.

I can give myself permission to be broken for a while.  I don't have to change the world.  I don't have to live a vivid, grandiose life.  I don't have to be perfect.  I don't even have to be particularly good! 

And as I allow myself the understanding to experience different phases and display different faces, life begins to feel warm again.  Thank God life happens so slowly.  If the world spun any faster, I doubt any of us could survive it.