How do I fit all the pieces together?
No longer can they go back nicely in the box
Stuffed back in, and ready for another day
They can’t, they won’t.
Neither do I want them to.
Raw
Unsettled
Exposed
Vulnerable
Layers of Emotions
Swirling
No beginning
And yet no end.
A massive mixing pot.
The mind and heart
Battling fiercely to distinguish
How to put it back together?
Where do I go from here?
Shame?
No longer welcome
Yet the remnants remain
Messages from the past
Powerful, foreboding
Dark. Familiar
Am I broken?
Cracked beyond repair?
Will I ever be fully mended?
Is that even obtainable?
I strive desperately for healing
Yet for what gain?
Only to be side swiped.
Jolted
Joy?
What the hell is that?
So close
Yet miles and miles beyond reach.
In the mixing pot
My chair is BROKEN
It’s uneven, and not like the rest.
Can it fit at the table?
Is there room for my crooked leg?
I have a limp from years ago.
Life has left lasting impact.
My chair is TAINTED
Its dirty and no longer fresh
It doesn’t sparkle.
Shame blinds and distorts
My perception to see clearly
To sit at the table confidently.
My chair is FRIGHTENED
It feels smaller and less than the others.
It feels young, incompetent
Comparison is death trap
Yet
In SELF COMPASSION
My chair gives me permission
And there is room to come as I am
My crooked chair is welcomed
Embraced
Seen as valuable
Permission given to
Be beautifully imperfect.
Grace to just be.
To extend kindness to oneself .
My pieces are in process
There is acceptance
They matter even in a state of brokenness
They impact others
My presence is missed when
I’m not at the table.
It is here I see clearly.
My chair is in fact crooked
Yet it still stands tall,
And fits with all the rest.
The crooked chair is
stunningly imperfect
Joy is felt and embraced
By those who also,
Like my crooked chair
Have their own imperfections
Yet it’s what makes the table
So full of life.
And it’s here that I choose to sit.
And love
My crooked chair.
~Andrea
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