Give Me Your Hands
from 
wystswolf
If love is the current, then let prayer be the tide — carrying us home to each other and to Him.
Ministration
When you hurt, I wish for nothing more in the world thant to hold you and tell you it's going to be okay. Because, it will be. Your future is certain. Be confident of this. It is the moment-to-moment that is the real challenge.
Existence in real-time can feel disastrous.
And words... God, words—they are so powerful—cutting into the heart and kidney, right to marrow... words have a force that lets them travel in and through time. They can move not only your mind, but your body as well.
Yet, words are less than the power of touch.
This is why being held and comforted is so intensely vital. You need touch. Someone to hold your hands until you fall asleep—and then to watch you safe and quiet while you heal.
Energy can be disrupted:
They may be gone. Or tragedy in the family. It is rainy and grey. There are vibrations in the spirit.
The list of an unsettled life is endless. And extroverts in particular need others to recharge in order to over come.
And you may wish desperately for that one perfect soul to be there with you and guide you through your discomfort and loss. And perhaps they wish it too. But acknowledge that dreams can never be held in your hands. Take solace in the knowledge that—if they could, they would dance with you, laugh with you, walk in the moonlight and make witty banter about the waxing crescent, or love in the night, and the spiders weaving their webs of salvation.
Oh! To have your playful imagination engaged with traded sillinesses.
And you have someone. We all have someone. They may not scratch the itch exactly the way you feel it needs, but they get close and you feel whole enough with them. And you will cherish this.
And soon, you will find that one who needs you to heal them. And suddenly you will no longer feel the weight of melancholy as you find yourself a caregiver. A savior. A protector and deliverer.
Enough
I don't only pray for you to be happy and safe and cared for, I KNOW you will be. Even if you feel like a broken toy sometimes. Or not enough. Or invisible. Or an asset. You are not those things. Not exclusively. Not even dominantly. You are a creature of love and light who knows how to celebrate life and live on the edge of out of control because that is where the most joy exists.
Ships are safest at port, but that is not what they are for. And you, my golden child, are a fine fast vessel, made for the sea. You are bound in lapped lumber of integrity and thoughtfulness. Ribs of caring and support. A rudder of conscience. Keel of hope. And—your mast—your finest quality. It is framed from the timber of Jehovah, so when you cast your sails of faith, the wind that fills them can blow a terrible tempest, but you, vessel of life... you will harness the force and the intensity will not rent you or break you. You will capture it for it's vigor to move you, fast and true in the direction of life and happiness.
And for those times you drift into the doldrums, those dead waters where no breath can be found. Those who love you will move you with the current of their energy.
Let the gentle whisper of “I Love You” restart your momentum.
You are cherished and lovable. Not for what you give and what others get , you are enough for who you are. You ARE THE ONE that is wanted. The glint in your eye, the spark in your heart, the lilt in your voice the power of your walk and your posture... for your mind—that reflection of love from the Creator.
I will apologize for they who let you down, disappointed you, took advantage of you or in any way damaged you. You are worthy of so much more. Your flaws are not flaws, the are features. You are a masterpiece on par with the great masterpieces of art... wild energy captured in the canvas of you.
Great art is not owned. It is entered. Which is why you find others in you.
I want to say all the words. All that have ever been. That are. That ever will be. Even if I could be a completist, prose will never suffice to capture the floodgates of my soul. What place does logic have in the chambers of the human heart? OH! Jehovah, that you've put in us this source of power that would move universes if you ask.
And, somehow, stay gravity.
If one thousand people love you, then one of them is me. If ten people love you, only nine are not I. If only one person loves you, that one is me. And if you find that no one loves you, then I am dead.
Bowed Head and Humble Heart
Tonight, in this prayer—if this be a prayer—Father, comfort and protect the disquieted souls. All of them, if possible, but especially those who love you and long for your love and approval. Help them to accept you, and to realize that to love you, we must first love ourselves. Help each of us to open the vault of our hearts from within, for we know you do not force us. I ask for help, as you know; though we have the tools to open our souls to you, we do not always have the knowledge or the strength.
Protect these good people and comfort them as they face the friction of an unfair existence. Give them patience, give them peace. Give them love — or rather, Jehovah, help them see they are lovable and accepted.
Enough.
And yet, even in our smallness, we ask again.
Thank you for it all, Jehovah. The hardship and the ease. If we are anything, thanks to you, we are not boring. If you will it, we will tell of our mad existence for all eternity to come. That which is tearful now, will one day be laughter, possibly wist. But it will never again be sadness or the dark in which we so often find ourselves.
And Father, if this moment is madness, then count me among the maddest. An artist and lover on the ragged edge of life. Standing at the tip of Gibraltar grazing stars with my fingertips. Severed ears are child's play compared to a bisected heart.
Make us whole. See us, Jehovah. Witness that we exist and while we could, we did what we could. Make them all whole, Jehovah. I know you see us with our handicaps, cripples that we are. How it must warm your heart and fill your ears with that roar of choked emotion to watch us drag ourselves through the mire of this system to lay our minds and hearts at your feet.
Thank you for making us in your image. We tiny little clay effigies of your love.
Whatever tomorrow brings to us Father, thank you for letting us walk with you this far. If it is your will, and you give us the power, we will walk on eternally as your friends.
Amen
wolfed
#confession #essay #story # journal #poetry #wyst #poetry #100daystooffset #writing #story #osxs
Sea Glass Memories
from wystswolf
Upon the shores of Biltwurt, Entwhistle in Eastern Wysterica was found a tiny blue gem.
The Journey
I love sea glass.
Not so much the actual objects themselves—though they are always beautiful—but the IDEA of sea glass and how it comes to be: Its journey from raw mineral to found art.
Just as the sand made everything round Just as the tar seeps up from the ground
Man takes sand and refines. Heats and shapes. Polishes. Packages. Sells. Someone buys it, uses it, possibly even loves it.
Then—inevitably—it is broken, lost, discarded.
And it finds its way to the sea where a life begins again. She remakes, sculpts, softens, reduces and carries it across time and tide, returning it home transformed.
When it arrives on the beach, many hears and countless miles have passed. The glass has changed: shape, texture, even purpose.
Sea glass somehow always becomes beautiful.
Like us, pressure, heat and friction takes a raw thing and forms something else entirely. The sea of life takes a human mind and heart and reforms it, the results are not always considered a thing of beautify—at least not by the one remade.
I often wonder:
How does the glass see itself in its new form as the hand of warmth begins to caress it?
The tide recedes, it is nestled in a bed of perfectly smooth sand, still wet before the heat of the day can close out the night's work. Does the little green or blue bit of detritus think itself a newfound gem and wait for the plucker to come and pluck?
Reflection
Or, more likely, does it think of its humble beginnings and how at one time it was so loved and lauded? As it was packaged and moved with care, then used so powerfully. Before that moment that disaster struck and it found itself cast aside and useless.
Become refuse.
Is it sad as it reflects on the long journey of so many miles? Or the maddening back-and-forth of the surf as it rolled across the sea floor? How hard it must have been when it smashed against the coral that broke it in pieces, dashing all hope that it might one day find itself beheld and loved again.
I think of its state when covered with the algae that would blur and blot its view of the world. And how lost it must have felt when wedged between the rocks and covered with sand. Lost in an eternity of darkness.
“All these things that have befallen you are what are common to sea glass. You shall not be overlooked.” ~ Book of Glass 10:13
Lost in the forest of a vast ocean, it cannot see itself, only feel its casting aside. Where it was once clean and pristine and useful, a thing loved because of its purpose, its usefulness—it would now find the transition difficult and the future unknowable.
The glass fears.
Until that day, the plucker plucked the newly made glass from the wet sand at the end of its journey.
At first, the glass doesn’t understand—it only knows exhaustion and surprise. But then, lifted into the sun, it realizes it is being seen. Loved, even.
Redemption
Now, with it's bulk cut away by time and tide, it's flashy shine worn to a satisfyingly gritty finish, it would bend and wield light in new and unexpected ways, exciting to all beholders, even the glass itself.
The tiny rock-like thing would suddenly discovered it was handled with care not because it served some grand purpose, but because it was beautiful. It would now be cherished because of it's journey, not the leverage it gave its holder.
Elevated from commodity to high art, the humble glass would now find that it's former uses were merely steps on a much longer journey to a crowning place in an artisan's palette.
Then the glass would rediscover pride, not in arrogance and superiority, but a pride in feeling seen... beheld as a thing of beauty unlike any other in the world. It would see there were others like, brothers and sisters, but not exactly as the sea glass was.
It would feel the warmth and love with which it was held as it was crafted and made even more attractive still when the artist matched the glass stone to a similar piece and set them in silver and gold.
Until, one sunny fall afternoon when a man and women the glass had never seen before would pluck it again. This time from a brilliantly lit carousel filled with other gems of glass.
As the little blue gem dangled and twinkled from the woman's ear at dinners, parties and gallery visits, the glass would not only see a world it never imagined possible, it would finally understand that its purpose was never in the first or even second life.
Here, nestled next to a lovely lithe neck silky and smooth where it would cast subtle blue kisses against the skin in the moonlight, it will have found its purpose:
To be held,
To be seen,
To feel loved and beautiful even as it made her even more so.
#poetry #confession #dream #sxs #wyst #100daystooffset #writing #beach #art #story #essay