BROKEN but not beyond FORGIVEN


You are my author.

Yes You!

You tell me how to feel.

If nice to me, I feel grateful.

I feel loved.

If you are upset with me.

I am under threat.

I am scared.

Or mad.

Or oh so worried.

I depend on how you are

to me.

And that is?

Self Sacrifice.

This brings this consideration to; What is the most spiritual thing I can do in a moment to become the most authentic I, one not solely dependent on my circumstances?

I think that most spiritual thing is to challenge my own wounds, my own fear loving hidden places; Those persistent evidences of my own misgivings. The who, what and where to why I am visited time and time and time again, by familiar defeats, a sense of being wronged, a weight that aways returns to burden.

These locations and characters from the past are not going away. Just proposing to “get over it” and such instant gratification like ignoring of ones history, do not always work for some, nor address the actual source of the disturbance in being me. They must then be addressed in the here and now by a newly empowered spirit, or a conscious effort to disengage those old judgements over my current situation.

In the Restorative Justice program I volunteer for, uncertainty over authorship of ones own feelings is the primary cause of many family problems. The ensuing, blame the other person for owning the cause, indicates this empty identity searching for substance to fill it. Unfortunately for our worlds; If I do not own my feelings, I am saying you all do. The initial shame to myself from a perceived wrong can become externalized into a blame another for the experience of me. A core identity of authorship is rejected, while a new paradigm of others determining my emotional state is instated. This new way of seeing me from the outside world in does make me the victim of my circumstances.

Well. a kind of miracle, or anti miracle has happened then. I have no acknowledged power or causal authority, yet seemingly, most magically and escapistly convenient, everyone and everything else does. The question should be; What the hell ever happened to the real me? I am nothing and all else everything. Something patently incongruous about that. And so the journey has a sign which reads; Location: Where am I? When all else is here being the decider? This is why this question of authorship is inherently a spiritual quest.

Old narratives can seem like security blankets of a sorts, like trustworthy friends or at least acquaintances. Ah. I knew that would happen, just like always. I can medicate myself in a manner of speaking, with my sense of defeat or its seemingly trustworthy nature, but what else could have happened? What other me might there be if I decide to change the narrative? Let’s say from friendly defeat, to a challenging wake up call to a new lesson? Same thing happened, but what I made of it is another mater. There is the beginnings of the difference between being a bystander in ones own life dishonestly insisting on innocence betrayed, or being grateful for the stubbed toe, for the shoe left right in the way, or that seeming way you know who just dismissed me.
Guess who is really the author of my life, of yours. There s a point where I can perceive I can change me. I can write how and who I really am. I can seek accuracy and accountability to me. I can decide to be the power in charge of my feelings. I can be empowered.

I grew up in my mid teens with a guardian who pretty much controlled my whole life. I did what I was told or else. I gave all my earnings over or else. I finally left with my life being threatened. A large mark had been left in my life from my situation. A year or so later, I decided to get my power back. How this happened was what left its own influence.

I figured out that the guardian was just like me. Lived a life in reaction like me. This person was someone, not to resent and be angry about, but to feel sorry for, even compassion and empathy toward, for their lost and missing true life. This act was the acceptance of a rational universe. We do things for reasons, and are trapped by those reasons unless we challenge them one way or another. I can try to get rid of all “bad” people, or understand why they are being bad. It is about being; What is in charge of ones being.

When I accepted this sensible universe, many things made much more sense. Why we all do things for reasons. It is those reasons which must be addressed. Addressing them puts the keyboard of my life right back under my own fingers. Well that was a revelation. It seemed in a kind of synchronicity with the most wise of religious and philosophical teachings. Instead of a mad world with inexplicable acts carried out by incomprehensible characters, where I inexplicably am victim recipient to all, we all are playing our roles to a T. The question is then, Who is writing the real me?

I don’t now about you, but I like the idea that when I face a usual reactive event, I can stop for an instant and put up a stop sight to whomevers signature was just going to write my experience. Instead, well now, I am free. I can pivot to what is best. I can decide; Should we get to the bottom of this right now? I can just ignore someone else’s own misgoverned role and speak instead to what I know is best in them. Suddenly, a stressful situation can have a whole new horizon. Why living is miraculously a dance where I can exert truth and reason over shadowy characters with their false mustaches, beards and odd to comprehend accents.

This is the difference between what is indeed broken, but what can as well be forgiven. There is a whole reasonable world out there just waiting for me to see the light. There are new connections to be made. There is even a kind of new and improved me to get to know. The; I am, me. My heart can become more in harmony with my mind. Emotions can change from all I have known, all the defeats can emerge out of the shadows as blessings, as kindling for the heartfire of my new life.

Whomever accepts this solid stance on reason instead of rationalization, they begin to appear confident in a new way. Those waves crashing upon their shores, as frightening and riveting to attention as they were, become something to safely wade out in, because I am now a wave walker! The fires of anger and shame no longer burn me to death, because I can now walk through fire calmly, with my attention on what is important; where the fuel is coming from.

Whatever the metaphor, may I sign my name with honor.