Father Wound
Today I am holding so much space little lost me. The me who has fallen. The little voice in my head that screams YOU ARE GOING TO BE ALONE FOREVER is deeply, slowly, stilly quieting
I’m exchanging deep insecurity for deep peace. My peace for Divine peace. Peace that reframes and contains community. Peace that allows us to more wholly, fully be free. It is devastating. It is breathtaking. It is damaging. It is restoring. It all depends on how deep we can see and breathe. It all depends on how close or how far apart we look at things.
There is a piece of me… there are pieces of everybody… that we have deeply been neglecting, but the world needs us to see. Some of us, many of us, are scarred by this feeling of being an Orphan. Orphan wounding. Big Orphan Energy.
It is deep. It is scarring. It is death-threatening. We do not want to go in deep and come face to face with this darkness or this energy…. But still, we are called to see. It is ripe timing, culminating of our pregnancy into orphan birth and delivery. For the first time in many centuries, we are going to try our hand at fathering. Many moons have passed since we did that last, and ever since, our pregnant women have been laboring. We have been lost in that incredulous sauce, and our rage and children have baked as bread embittering. We have (all have) some unfinished business. These loaves have not fully formed or finished baking.
But anyways. In the stillness. In the quiet. We (our) hearts are jazzing. They are energizing. They are prophetically breaking. For no more can we persist in Orphan form. We are fathering. We are mothering. We are existing from persecution. We are surrendering our pain and no more are we called to ignore our suffering.
We are owning it. We are honoring it. We are (pun intended & yet to be explored) “manning the fuck up.”
We are called to come running. To come adventuring. Our hearts called at long last to come back into the free nature in which we already get to be full surrendered, free, exploring.
We are needing our hearts to be mended fully, we are needing to be mentored, In the sacred form that our forefathers did; ministered to by our ancestors; and by our soldiers; and by our wings; our guns on which we carry fallen ashes, and spread them out like sacred things, eyes tears splattered like a growing rose who sheds its thorns, surrendered that petals may grow in sacred (silent. Joyful. Tearful. Beautiful. Joyous) softness.
This thanksgiving, we are thankful for everything. And all things. And all breaks. And all wings.
We are exchanging our pettiness and jealousy for prettier, less painful things.