I lie in bed between the realms of subconscious and awake. Cocooned under covers, eyes closed in the darkness of the room, curtain tight against the late rising sun. At first, I thought I was stirred by my stomach, wretched unknown illness plaguing me for weeks. But my stomach makes no noise. Only my mind, a will of its own.
Words, from a year and a half, more than that now—twenty-two months—of wrestling with my God and falling apart, falling deeper into myself, and I understand what must be said. No life story, no microscopic observation of poetic details of the day, but the rumble of my universe, cosmic thunder within. The struggles that never seem to end with my move, my faith, myself. All in the city that burns.
This is breaking point between two halves—all I used to know, all that raised me and drew me in my Wisconsin persona, and all that is strange and unfamiliar to my bones. I am two halves cut clean through. And though I do not know what all to say, I trust that words will come as I need them. And I trust my God will give them to me, because I am learning to believe in His untamed, unregulated character. The one that is as raw as my own soul, scratched like sandpaper hard for three years.
I am no stranger to pain. And somewhere hiding deep inside, I am no stranger to pleasure as well. There I must strain to find the balance, the scales steady across my palm. What I have known of hurt and aloneness, I must also have known of joy and intimacy.
This journey has threatened to break me twenty times over, maybe more. Still my God keeps bending, assessing my heart and turning it in His hand. I am not that pliable. He seems to think that I am.
My cheek nuzzles into cotton fabric of my pillow. I dig in further inside my bed. Sweet nothing hovering all around, tucked lightly inside my soul. This dark I have fled from, that I have screamed at in echoes, does not frighten me. I understand now its place in my world. At least, I am beginning to understand. I may never fully grasp its presence, why it has lingered, overstayed my hesitant welcome. But like the gray matter in my room, my soul incubates in the black light of its womb.
One last inhale of air through my nose, last remnants of delicious subconscious sway. My arm pulls back the quilts and I lean my legs over the edge, body sinking into the mattress. It is time to put these labored thoughts to rest, settle them softly in their crib of pages, and sing a mournful, beautiful tune to their tired ears.
Here is where I begin. The very best and very worse of the flesh-wrapped soul that is me. Or, rather, this new emergence of that which I am becoming.