Standing at the Chasm

I lay on my bed and tears covered my cheeks. The day disappeared into a vortex as I processed it all. The Book of Forgiving was in my hands and on my chest. I would read, then lay it down to cry. Then read, then lay it down to cry. I was cleaning out. Cleaning out house from decades of dust. Looking in the very back corners and inviting it all to go. It scared the shit out of me.

This had been my story for so long. It was my identity. It protected me. It validated me. Giving up the story of victim felt like suicide. I remember drawing a picture of what the moment felt like. I was standing at the edge of a chasm. A gargantuan size canyon. I was looking over at the other side and could see a vision of the things I craved.

Peace. Joy. Love.

It was all there. It was always there. But it wasn't here. It was there. It was all mine if I wanted it. It wasn't complicated or tricky. In fact, I could have as much of it as I wanted also because there were no limits. There was sufficient for my needs. All I had to do was step in.

But stepping in felt like death. I could take a step, but... doesn't anyone see I'm standing at a chasm?! I will surely die. Between this place and the other side, there are parts of me that will drop. They're gonna go away forever, hit the ground and shatter, and that death feels too scary and sad.

Maybe.

I pulled the book back up and began to read again: "My forgiveness is not a gift that I am giving to you. When I forgive you, my forgiveness will be a gift that gives itself to me."

I began to think of my children. I began to think of their children, and theirs. My view was changing as I took the focus off myself. When I forgive you, my forgiveness will be a gift that gives itself to me. And my children. And their children. And theirs.

As my heart began to open to possibility, I remember feeling so afraid. I knew that letting go of this part of myself that had been hurt would leave me naked and vulnerable. I'd be a turtle without her shell. I'd be a knight without her armor. But-- there were my kids. And their kids, and theirs. And letting go of this part of myself that had been hurt would also leave me open and empty. Ready to write a new song. This act of courage would impact the story of generations of people. It would invite the same kind of courage in my children. It would be a holy gift for me.

I remember lying there soaked with tears and knowing that I could and would do it. For the sake of healing the intergenerational family, I'd step into the chasm. And that night I did.

There's a feeling in the air today that is reminiscent of March 7, 2017.

It feels like I'm so close. I'm standing at the edge of making a commitment that I won't turn back from. And, when I commit, I mean it. It's interesting how there's a knowing about it. That knowing says that once I make this commitment, other parts of me will need to fall away. Parts that say:

"Keep the door open!"

"Don't get yourself trapped"

"Don't love someone fully unless you don't have a single reservation"

"Don't let go of possibilities"

So I sit here, again with tears on my cheeks. Scared to move forward. Scared of who I am without those protective parts. But I remind myself gently that death is a part of life. That, just like in March 2017, things must die in order for me to be open and empty, ready to write a new story.

The secret of the inhale is that it remembers the power and wisdom of the exhale. It feels like it's time to empty myself of air. So much power in the exhale.