Please don’t try to fix me.
Please don’t tell me all the things I need to do, to get to that ever-elusive place of where I need to be.
Please don’t look me in the eye and speak of the beauty of one-day-soon. Do not tell me where I am headed, and do not push me to achieve.
I’ve about had it with the pushing, the growing, and the metrics. You see, I was never really on board with your made-up race anyway. Ever striving for an invented finish. Standing upon a podium to receive your imposed dreams of dust, not gold.
I’m tired, and I’m done.
My prize lives in the smile of a child and the wildflower that grows, fearlessly, amidst the strip. The red-dirt road that leads to nowhere, and the flicker of a setting sun on the banks of an army shore of hill-ridden windows.
So, as you champion or ridicule all the things that I have or have not done, riddle me this: how did I make you feel in the process?
Did one minute with me make you question everything you hold dear?
Did an hour make you pause to reevaluate your life thus far?
Did I bring up all the questions you had so carefully swept under the rug? Did my very presence leave you shaky and unsettled, bones rattled and breath a tad deeper, as you realized it just may be the only thing left?
Good. My job here is being carried out.
Do my questions make you feel uncomfortable? Or was it the fact that you do not hold the answers I need?
Maybe I never intended for you to answer; and the need is merely our twisted perception of what may or may not create some sense of internal satisfaction, for us both.
And so, dear, I promise, I won’t try to fix you, either.
I won’t look at you as a work-in-progress, and I won’t speak of all the changes that will make you complete.
Rather, I will listen. I will hear the whisper of your roots as they brush against dirt, in their ever-working quest to grow deeper.
I will stand still in place until the soles of my feet can feel that very root movement in the subtlety of a tremor so divine, it holds the power to shake the whole world awake, and I will breathe a sigh of relief that it is all happening at just the right time.
I will hold outstretched an open-faced palm for you to sprinkle your own brand of sunlit water droplets, allowing the beads of light to grow me fuller than I ever dreamt possible.
I will listen, and I will wait.
And in the process of waiting, I vow to never cease stirring the pot of questions. To let the flight of ideas and the whirl of ponders melt away my skin. Fleshy enclave of a beating heart made of questions, not answers. Love, not certainty. Life, not fear. Feeling over growth. Faith over measurement. And trust over results.
So, dear self, I hope that you will commit not to fix me (and you, and us too).
This post was published on Rebelle Society.