I am heavy and full right now, waterlogged with feeling, tired and a bit burned from exposure to the sun, both literal and figurative. The changes of the last month or two are settling in, making themselves at home, and the rhythm of this new reality (albeit an interlude for just this summer, which creates its own anxiety) is becoming familiar. I feel a bit out of words, but also as though there is a tide of them brimming up inside of me, the vague pressure slowly mounting. I hope I can ride this tide to somewhere that has meaning, and peace, and calm. I’ll let you know.
In the meantime, I seek refuge, as is my habit, in the words of others. Today, Meg Casey’s essay, These are things I know now, spoke to me. I’ve quoted Meg before, and I think she’s one of the most exquisitely honest writers out there. Her journey resonates with me and I’m touched every single time I read her words. Maybe what I’m feeling right now is surrender to my empty bowl, to the trust that something essential and life-giving will fill it.
Meg, thank you, as always, for providing solace when I feel the undertow most strongly, for when I feel storm-tossed and run aground at the same time.
These are things I know now – Meg Casey
That sometimes the most beautiful innocence can be born from deep suffering, desperation and ugliness
That nothing is ever one thing and even the most exquisite joy and breathtaking beauty can be punctuated by sadness and loss and even the most heartbreaking grief can be tinged with a rosy kindness
That laughter and silliness and ridiculousness is sometimes the only answer to heaviness
That my heart will whisper to me exactly what I must do next
That angels most certainly must exist
That I have sisters who I will walk with and they will not leave me and I will not leave them because our paths are intertwined whether we like it or not (though we mostly like it)
That love (not sappy silly love by lionness roaring love) is alchemical — it is the magic ingredient and while it sounds so trite its true
That the youngest among us are extremely powerful and hold all the wisdom that we forgot
That miracles are like tsunamis and leave disasterous messiness in their wake and it is a saint’s job to clean up what comes behind, physically hold the wounded together to sutcher their souls.
Saints also bring lemon cake and stand on chairs tip toe to hang paper hearts from the ceiling
I think the bowl has to empty of just about everything (including words) before anything else can go in.
All this hopeful trusting you are doing these days seems like good work in that direction. And is certainly helping you accomplish that goal to be here now. (If nothing else, the being here now is going to make it all worthwhile.)
I love the last line of this piece. Reminds me of one time some saints stood on tiptoe and hung Christmas decorations from my ceiling.
Bless you both, Lindsey…. and thanks for the company on the journey.
Beautiful! Thank you for sharing this essay Lindsey. I love the part in Meg’s essay that even the most beautiful things can be punctuated and sad.
Recently I’ve found refuge so often in the words of others, because in those words I’ve found common ground and with that comes the comnfort of knowing I’m not alone.
Beautiful, thank you for sharing.
Thank you for leading me to Meg’s words. I don’t know if I’d found them otherwise. Thank you for continuing to be true, honest and stunning.Thank you, above all, for feeling like a gift to me.
XO
TG