Fear and Power (Words from the Past)

Fear and Power
-7 October, 2000-
LJA

There is both fear and power in the written word.

There is fear because it takes our lives back to the state of the garden where innocence made the choice to eat the fruit and found itself exposed before a soul not ready to see itself as human, fallible, able to fall. Laying each word upon the page our eyes cannot hide from the blemishes and scars that caused us to rush to find the fig leaves of lies or the skins of social propriety to hide that nakedness from a world that often forgets the meaning of mercy. And so we run from words, frightened by the feared aloneness we already live with in the hiddenness of our spirits.

And yet there is power. There is power to move mountains of emotions, of pain–power to take the burdens of years and lay them down, at last to rest in quiet screams upon the page. Words become doorways to understanding, to compassion, to knowledge that we are not alone, that others too bear blemishes, scars hidden for years. They form a bridge made of outstretched hands calloused from years of working to obscure, marked by smudges of ink mixed with tears, reaching, reaching to touch the outstretched hands of others who realize that fig leaves and skins can never heal but only hide the truth within.

Fear and power, power and fear–my words cry ages of living, moments of memories etched indelibly on my heart, life changing moments helping to form the me of the present, experiences that while held in my soul rendered me helpless, caged by the past, clipping my wings meant to soar into the horizons of my future.

Laying each word in nakedness upon the page, I stand before my reader exposed in the rawness of myself begging “Mercy!” yet knowing in a way I have never known before that it is my own mercy I seek, my own forgiveness for having failed to live out infallibly the depths of my dreams, my own acceptance and belief that I can take these fragile somber threads of betrayals, hurts and failures and weave them with the vibrant threads of the joys and triumphs of my life, whether few or many, to form from this cloth — the design of my life — a garment, no longer hiding me but covering me with rippling folds of the peace of knowing I am at last set free…….

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