On Growth:
The old stories I tell myself are insidious, creeping and tangled things
Words that weave in and out of proclamations of wholeness, of healing
Until the simple act of believing in my capacity to love and be loved
To live joyfully
To inhale without an agenda for every next breath
All wither
All crumble
All dissolve
Over and over
Watching them leave
Because I smelled the rot
And persisted in the lie
“You’ll be the death of me”
All along
Refusing to trace my roots
Deeper down than ever before
Into soil that was never capable of sustaining
All that I am
All that I might’ve been
All that I still can do
Planted in a shallow pot I mistook for Eden
While eating the apples my mother handed me
Sweet flesh of the fruit choking back
Any speculation
Any curiosity
Any suspicion
Fed the stories
That would someday feed on every failed attempt
At human connection
At building trust
At enjoying the moment
Vicious vines violently anchoring me
In a shallow pot
Up until the very moment
I stop listening
I start seeing
The repetition
The loop
The pattern
I dig
Deeper down than ever before
And plant myself among the mycelium
Ready to write new stories
In Eden
On a sweet breath
Anchored
In the truth these roots of mine tell
I don’t need to stop growing
I must persist
In finding all the spaces
In finding all the people
In which I am encouraged to grow