Dark Space, Black Matter

Dark Space, Black Matter

1920 1248 Sarah Rennicke

Before the canvas of the world was painted, the earth posed void, black, formless.

Intentionally kept dark for creation, for becoming, purpose was published from shadows, from an ink blanket of berth. This was good, part of the order of things.

So I allow the same for my soul. Sit in the unshapen, breathless; being. No push to rush away the restless, the flush of alone and feeling of being lost in charcoal soil. I am welcomed in ways I would never had been had I not ventured into hovering waters, deep and endless and uncolored. Grappling with this way of being, hearing society slap me with a quick, contented fix that inadvertently accuses my faith. Light versus dark. Skin versus spirit. Righteousness versus sin. As if when one side exists, the other couldn’t possibly.

I have not been born to carry continuous happy bubbled within my chest. My burden is my blessing in the underbelly of life, where my tears find themselves falling down the skin of someone else, where my anchored heart magnetizes with the weight of theirs. Where I am constantly standing in line with the loose rise of moon, its face deep creviced and reflecting light in imitation.

Under the earth is dark space anyway, but I delve into the black, attempts to feel my way to fine.

I have always been more comfortable in the shadows than daylight. And I had buried it in shame, thinking something must be off in me that I sink into melancholy more than most. If I wasn’t shining joy from my countenance, then I wasn’t truly experiencing God’s goodness.

And so I sunk deeper into wondering what was wrong with the way I was wired, wracking my brain to find a solution to solve the unsettled. Attend church, find people to live life with, keep praying even when these spheres would not orbit well around my faith. I attempted to jam the pieces together with surface, always the smile and the “life is good but busy” bit. And if there was trouble and I let a few in to see the struggle of my heart, they point to sin and tell me to stick with Jesus. Because Lord knows, on my own I can create endless mess of what I meant to tame.

Like I haven’t been faithful enough when the pain doesn’t go away. If I just love Him a little more, I will be overwhelmed in His delight. If I just see Him as Shepherd watching over me, guiding me to good, I can enter in to green pastures.

Yes, God is beautiful. But He does not simply watch from a distance the weight of life, the hammering of souls and breaking of the delicate spaces. To be seen in shadow is still to be seen, met where safety is sought. Those murky places are where I can explore this becoming, the evolution inside that churns new every day, when the clock chimes midnight in the middle of that deep lack of light.

He is not simply the sun that ignites the world; He is black ink of galaxies that make the sun’s light give form to apparition. But without the veil, mystery would be muted and wonder erased. Where would the fun of exploration be? Envisioning new shapes, hidden curves, taste and touch and sound when lack of sight heightens other senses? Black matter makes dense discovery.

He is not simply the sun that ignites the world; He is black ink of galaxies. @SRennAwake Click To Tweet

It is heart exhaustion straining to be good when I just want to cut my cords of trying and fall into ever-expanding constellations of grace. I cannot see what others expect me to. Cannot feel the way they want. I live out in the open and refuse to come back inside. Hazy landscape in me, still forming. But life forms anew each hour, each minute, each millisecond. I can never explain it and I have to stop trying to find answers and let the beyond swallow my heart in upside-down sweetness, in trust. Embrace this unknown. Trust the God who shot to the depths and enfolded Himself in the tomb of darkness and did not dance around the grime.

I do not shy away. Not from the way my heart is made, the hurt I hold for others, how the glass lowers its volume but never drains. Not from the skin that sheds itself according to the wind. The wind that blows where it pleases, when it wants. Wind that cannot be seen, but says enough with what it leaves behind, ruffles through the flesh of us, across earth. According to divine creation, there is pause, quiet, unwind from action. There is unseen certainty even when all is unclear and I am quietly breathing in the eye of the storm, brief wake of silence that punctuates a beauty in the unspoken, silent repose.

Sarah Rennicke

Sarah Rennicke loves words. She also loves people. And she loves weaving them together in honest and vulnerable ways. She loves slowing down and listening to the heartbeats of this world, exploring the hidden hopes and deepest fears tucked away in souls. She believes that God created imagination to truly see His handiwork, and that we are all desiring to be seen, known, and loved.

All posts by Sarah Rennicke

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