Momma

I often refer to myself in the privacy of my thoughts as a prodigal daughter...simply because I fight whats best for me for the sake of battle and even maybe a challenge. Recently I watched my mother pray without ceasing (probably for me) and I saw her war-torn battle tested bible and prayer books. The tape and rubber bands barely held the paper together, the edges pig eared to tearing, and few bare spaces were scribbled in with deep passionate cries for change, help, blessings...something.
This made me cry. I felt so helpless for my mother, someone I fight with constantly... For what? The day she leaves me will be a horrible awakening of wasted pride. I should be proud of her and vice versa. I felt horrible that she was hurting so deep that even holy text left her empty. That even reading the same Jeremiah 29:11 "for these plans I have for you.." didn't appeal to her cries that I probably caused her to scream. Whatever prayer she was decreeing over me went unheard. I cried for mom then, and saw her as human as myself; but somehow better. She is my mother.

Come.

I just want you to come.
Come to me with everything you own, all your baggage, your indecisions and shames.
I want to unpack it all.
Place them neatly on the mantle to remind me of how far you've come. Also to remind me of the lenghts I have to go in order to reach you.
The lengths I'd gladly go if you were my last gasp of air.
Come to me.
Bring your renewed hopes in us and let's unpack them together. The mistakes we made let's not harbor on those packages, and treat them like last season gifts.
Whether we enjoy the process of unpacking or not is irrelevant; I want us to share the everything that encompass the beautiful being that is you.
Come and unpack.
I won't judge your filth, I won't question it. With compassionate words I help you amass what's unpleasant. With that I would only dare to remind of how I adore you for those same reasons.
I adore your filth because it is a part of you. For that reason it's unfortunately named by you which I chose to change to mere skips in your perfect beat.
The beat I dance too in hopes that you will come.
Come and unpack with me.

I'm a confessed Bottler

Rarely a late night passes me by without a motley movie of thoughts.

Well, I'm a bottler.
No. I don't work at a brewer (if heaven were to only bless me!) But when I say bottler, I mean when undesirable happens, undesirable gets packaged, wrapped tight, and stored in a closet to be opened never. There's comfort in a dissmisive attitude; no matter what anyone does or says, if its not what I want to hear? *Boxed* Unpleasant? *Boxed * Annoying? *Boxed * Boxed, swallowed and stored in sacrifice to neutrality. Neutrality is a comfortable place where nothing happens, quite unhealthy. So...in essence...
Whatever makes me uneasy gets thrown away projectively in a place I chose to not occupy; my soul. I know the power of my soul well! Its large, powerful and gets me into trouble. Here lies my unpleasantness, my poorness, my cries, and perhaps s joys too. Every compliment I didn't believe placed neatly next to every diss I secretly believed...not from strangers. From those whose lies I bought when the price was too high but the product was shiny, new and smelled tempting..  So like someone who likes shiny new and fragrant things, I paid. Paid with love, with attention, with secrets I regret and especially with my laughs. I love to laughs. And I love my laughs. I love laughs and TO laughs. My laughs mean what you said made me smile and to think my laughs were the result of a charade? It hurts. So to move on forward the best way I know how, I take those hurts and toss them where I can't see them. Although they didn't mean to bring such awesome joy I still genuinely enjoyed it. In all, it is their loss to lose someone who chooses to laugh with you. That's what that soul is about. Memories of good juxtaposed to what was great. Aligned to what scarred and memories of less. What's in your soul?

Namaste