holding

I have a hard time letting go. Of things. Of people. Places and smells. Tattoos that I existed with them and they with me come first in the form of tears. The pooling kind that encase your lids and leave you tired well before their very first drip. I collect.

All my life I've been that old lady on the shore. She bends crooked with a devoted will there amongst the morning waves that crash. Combing for potential. Hers. Others. With a floppy hat and deep bending wrinkles there on her face reminding her that she has owned so many beautiful and hard breathes.

And I'm that little girl sand clad with strings of seaweed twisted inside her ruffly swimsuit just the same. Tangles she finds oblivious for the shells are what she seeks. I am both. The old lady and the little one dear. My sea treasures are feelings. Mine so very much and yours too if you'll let me hold them.

I've always known that my body was so much more than weight or being. It's this very conviction that suits my person for upright and moving. This declaration that I am a reservoir. An absolute repository for Him. A dumping ground for the tearful. The unexplained feelings uneasy and ill refuted and most uncertain, too.

I can call myself the holder. The holding. The open space where all those undetermined can stretch out and become. Climbing more towards resolve. Claiming their ways more into heart. Engaging connections and inspiring dreams to become more tangible & shapely. And then, just like that, find freedom to fall all apart again.

I am quite certain that this holding might be my most important role here on earth. Gifted from Him to be the reservoir. That this calling matters much more than a W-2, a giant success attached to a booming business, a self proclaimed authorship or even that golden apple fruitful of wonderful teaching stories that sits there on my Mrs. Cobble desk.

My faith comes in the building of these feelings. And holding them just the same. Not working to categorize. Or to promote their passions with zealous gusto and fix their broken and unrequited state. But just waiting to watch them pass from the inside of me to the outside of you. And maybe back again.

That this openness can be good and this uncertainty even gooder. And my holding with eyelids like tearful cups of joy springs or perhaps salty waterfalls of fear and unshakable sadness is just exactly enough. For me and for you. If you'll let me.

This little girl will one day learn of the seaweed twists jumbled there inside her nylon ruffles just outside of organs. And those great ocean winds will inadvertently send that old floppy hat flying away exposing the beautiful and hard bending folds there on that old lady's face. And I will exist for both and believe even more in the beauty of my greatest job here on earth. Collecting and holding for you and for me will be the secret I am most thankful to keep with you.