This morning, I sat wordless before the Father. Don’t you hate it when that happens? You’re supposed to be praying and all of sudden (or maybe not so suddenly, maybe it feels chronic) there’s just nothing to say? That was today.
But recently, I read @BlumLee on her fabulous site http://www.leewolfeblum.com and one little phrase lodged in my memory. She said something about writing from her subconscious. So, even though I was praying, I tried to let my mind go to what I was not thinking. I mean, after all, God knows all that anyway…right?
There’s a weakening in me.
Like a rope washed and weathered by sun and salt.
Its life work about to pitch mercilessly on high seas, the familiar dock and droppings, fragrant with fish and stagnant air–
All safety far behind.
I wonder, how long it will hold together at all?
I wonder at those boats I’ve seen loose from tether in the distance.
What do they do–Wild and loose?
Is it frightening everyday?
What currents and rough winds await?
Will I ever return?
I feel about and nearly.
I float on almost and possibly.
There can be no assurance, wild upon those waves!
What of all I’ve so long feared?
Lost, a drifter, no purpose or destination,
No identifying flag.
Or pirates and mercenaries to scavenge me for waste?
Primitive, small, sunk low.
But here I find at once I’m loose, and at loss, and quite lost.
But I’ve been drifting slowly now,
‘Neath rise and sunset for a time.
A bit more weathered, not worse for wear.
But maybe stronger.
No storm has torn assunder.
I’ve no sail to rip.
And out here, the droppings miss me, a scent of salt and singular freedom.
The air awash with wind and wild blue.
I’ve even begun to see the others,
I’m not alone out here.
So many must have lost their lines.
Wayward a few, crosswise against the tide.
Fighting for float.
I would have kept away,
Far safe from their troubled wakes,
Dodging waves in a cove.
But the cries became so loud!
Fear a wretched sound,
A boat near sinking, a life near death,
Facing the one thing that would make it all it’s not–
Not a boat, not afloat, not alive.
I found a coil.
Neglected since I left the dock.
Warily, I wafted toward the distressed, and threw the line.
Not much, this little rope.
And I feared it would break.
Who am I? And what are my good intentions?
Lost, fueled by an invisible tide.
When my line reached her,
The wind began to blow.
And ushered with solemnity and solidarity
Our two hearts toward harbor.
When I read this poem later, I saw my purpose in those lines, my passion. God is using my once-lostness, my once-fearful, my once-dying to rescue others.
I pray especially, that anyone who reads my book finds hope and healing. #ThePredatoryLiesofAnorexia