Nothing needs fixing.
We are held together by Love alone.
Annihilated in the Sacred longing.
Grace will unravel and reweave us of Her own accord.
Love will push into us until we are wholly dislocated,
cured of the old pretense, and cannot go back.
Until we are precisely what She intended all along.
Something useful, like a mouth or a hand.
Nothing separate, like the air from the breath.
So. Let. It. Reign.
You have prayed and prayed to come alive
and the Mother of Creation has heard your cries
and turned Her face. To you.
Change your life,
She says and now you have no choice.
Lean into Trouble.
It’s too late to run.
It’s not up to you to hold it all together anymore.
You will loose everything anyhow.
Let. All. That. Can. Burn. burn.
Bask in the UnRuined.
Surrender to that chaos you keep at bay
and suddenly calamity becomes the cure.
Underneath the make up and that glorious yellow shawl
there is my species of holy mess.
I have stopped pretending.
I fly Her colors.
And bless indiscriminately.
What a relief.
To be this thing that says yes.