There are half a dozen started yet unfinished posts from these past two weeks. It's been busy with new truths about past traumas, and preparing to celebrate, then celebrating 5 years of marriage. I haven't made the time to sit with my words to find the completion for these posts. There are many areas where my life and heart are in process. Maybe there aren't words to complete the posts. Maybe they, like me are unfinished, in process, journeying.
Anyone who meets me quickly learns that I'm inpatient. Being in process is maddening to us. My heart beats hurry, hurry, hurry in hopes that by going faster somehow it will protect itself from the day to day hurts. The hurts of my marriage when my husband still withholds his heart from mine. The hurts of a body that bears reminders of past neglect in joints that never healed quite right after repeated injury. The hurts of my faith as the words of the present echo the words of the past.
If only hurrying would protect my fragile heart. Instead it tells my wounds that they are inconvenient, irrelevant, inconsequential. My hurrying doesn't change the pacing of this journey to heal. That pacing is out of my hands and entrusted to those of the Divine who seems unconcerned by my anxious worrying. Worrying that the healing will take as long as the hurting, or worse, longer. Worrying that my life is passing me by still as I wrestle with the aftermath of a life I didn't ask for or deserve.
Under the worries is my fear, my fear that I am still on the outside, looking in the window at a scene that excites and terrifies me at the same time. I ache to belong, yet fear walking through the door. It's always been that way. I've lived on the outside for too long, I forget that the only window I'm looking through now is one that I've built myself.