Incomplete Meditation

I don’t like waiting and loose ends, but I appreciate the outcome of determination balanced with patience. I like singing along. I like warm sunny days followed by cold snuggly nights. I like when brothers appreciate each other, faces contorted into giggly art, bellies jiggling.
For years, my “right now” has been exceedingly beautiful. I am growing accustomed to serene days, lack of drama.
Still, my prayer is forever, “O God, I pray to always remember where I came from.” This plea is my guard against ingratitude, hope that I may always understand a fellow traveler hunted by wounds inflicted when they were the innocent budding being, talking life in with few questions, unaware, blinded by inexperience.
I used to wander Chicago’s streets, every day a slow walk to nowhere, wondering if ever I would be granted a reprieve, a release from the prison of my failed best intentions to “make it” in the world. With each measured step, I was also breathing in, observing without judgment, the world. I began to understand that the mental instability I believed to be a part of my being, had been given without my permission, not chosen, and therefore I could let go, little by little, day by day, gathering beauty and sense around me as a robe of light.
Many a stranger have I passed on the street, their faces revealing a hunger for sanity, a desire to lighten the load their life has become. If I am alone, clear, open, I am flooded with love, speaking in the quiet of my thoughts, “You are so dear.”
I’ve been thinking about Ann Nichol’s post, The First Cut.
Some thoughts have no closure.

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