I am trusting you to hold what I share with tenderness, like a nestling in your hand. Please do not laugh or shame me into the corner . . .
This afternoon when no one but the dogs were home, I knelt before 2 small boxes. There was a plain white box, with black magic marker scribbled on it, and a robin-egg blue Tiffany box.
Both of these boxes had been packed inside the larger moving box in my closet – the one filled with my writing that said “Do not open until Mother’s Day 2016” – and which I opened 3 days ago.
My heart guided me to the blue box (the only Tiffany box I’ve ever received.)
All its contents – papers and notebooks and journals – were wrapped carefully in gift-bag tissue, tied with satin ribbons. Old greeting cards and saved hand-written notes from my children were tucked deliberately throughout – their messages perfectly timed and resonant.
To say my heart is overwhelmed is just too small a phrase.
My heart feels like I have pulled open a heavy-wooden door of some ancient church – and been invited into the largest, most sacred space I’ve ever known – my soul is rising up and stretching itself to embody the height of its arches, the length of its aisles, its gold filigree, its field of candlelight – such a holy, trembling stillness inhabits this space, this moment . . .
So moved and so full is my heart that there was no way for me to open the other box. Instead, my heart whispered : it is enough. And the hymn Amazing Grace emerged from my mouth as I knelt there..
Then, I stood up and walked to my chair and sat at my desk to begin typing this letter to you,
I wanted to share this private moment with you, to mark its importance, its sacredness, its beauty with you. Every part of me knew I needed to tell you, while still being immersed in its beauty, not to wait another minute longer or for some better time . . .
Also, there is a promise I need to make to you, my reader and to you, my writing. And like this reflection, I must make this promise today.
To my Writing – I will honor you by being brave and taking action. I promise to take each page out of the left-side, desk drawer beside me and read it, with as much love and time and attention as I can. Then, I will make a choice: to share you immediately here, to hold you back and thread you into a larger tapestry of story, or to let you go, as hard as that will be. No more boxes.
To my Reader – I will honor you by showing up at the page, by demonstrating courage, and being truthful with my words – even when I fear what I write may hurt or frighten you or make you hate me. I will trust that truth trumps secrets every time. And that our shared stories matter, even the seemingly ordinary ones.
With these promises, made on this 3rd day of January in the year 2016, I honor you.
i remain, your loving & brave writer