I've watched the hornet's nest outside my window grow to a beautiful size over the past month. Actually, I haven't really seen the entire transformation, as I've been looking out other windows and observing other risks. But perhaps the gap is even more fitting. It marks the truth of things seen and long ignored. It makes me wonder, as I sometimes do, the paradox of our delicately balanced lives. How it is, exactly, that safety for some means danger for others. How sting after sting of pain over time builds up our tolerance to the fact that we hurt. How one can be closer to danger than ever, yet never feel farther from harm. How I can see the most of truth when looking through the lens of a foe. How even the so-called "threats" develop walls of protection against the winds their wings are too fragile to weather.
How two months of a lifetime for me is barely a memory to those who've been battered into the preservative of forgetfulness.
The way I can pass a world everyday and completely ignore the fact that it's real--until it starts to block my way and alter my view; begging more for attention than money.
I wonder why the nest of tiny not-even-spiders with their mysterious goings-on and paper thin walls causes me to change my route and keep my unscreened left window tightly shut.
It is times like this, on the border of pacific rain in the comfort of something warm--be it my bed or a fleece-lined coat-- that I question my ability to see the world as it deserves to be seen.
They, like me (?), are alive. But there is a giant glass window of little girls fears that kept the alive from being real; a window that has shattered, but will never repair.
Elohim has spent eternity and forever + 19years10monthsandcounting breaking this glass. I have (been) cut by the pieces of process, stung back to agony by shards that I have developed the habit of trying to ignore. But between blood and the view I have been cornered into His arms. When the last pa(i)ne falls, He will be there to make mosaics from the scattered pieces of all our mistakes.
Still just fragments, mine is a tale told in excerpts, poems, stanzas and vignettes in pursuit of the truth with the fear of regret. Yet between the pieces, there is always El Shaddai.
He taught me that healing comes to the broken places first.
***
These thoughts are the wings that fly out(in)side my room. They bridge the gap between my before and my after in a tangible (but don't try to touch it!) orb of circular truth.
This nest reveals the layers of glass. Their wings are a new perspective. Now we both see what is on the other side.
(Let's not pretend otherwise.)
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