In Need of a Hug.

When I cry in public, I do this thing where I raise my hand in front of my face to cover my eyes. We will be speaking about something innocuous and silly: talking in merry-go-rounds full of laughter and hand holding, like children playing on a playground, and suddenly I will see the face of God.

At first it is hard to know what has happened. It’s just a big black man in bright pink colors sitting quietly with his hand over his face. The conversation stops abruptly, and I am just sitting there…

“I’m sorry.  I’m sorry. I’m so silly. I’m fine. It just caught me by surprise. I’m sorry.”

 And then my shoulders slump, and my breath heaves; filling my chest with spirit and air and something that looks a lot like hurt but tastes differently against your skin; and before you know it, I am crying in front of you.

My tears drop gently down my cheeks, anointing my face like a mother’s nightly prayer; and my hand stands before my face, trembling and strong, like a church-top steeple in the middle of a storm.

And in an instant the storm passes, and I am myself again. The hand drops, and I become witty and charming and self-deprecating the way I am when I don’t want to be me. I release a burst of brilliant golden colored laughter like sunshine after the rain, and I apologize over and over as I giggle and smile and wipe away my tears with a light blue hanky from my right back pocket.

“I’m sorry.  I’m sorry. I’m so silly. I’m fine. It just caught me by surprise. I’m sorry.”

It is one of the most beautiful things you will ever see, and one of the only rare moments where you will ever see me fragile or broken; and in need of a hug. I do not need one, but it looks like I do.

I am not a fragile soul. I am not gentle or soft or in need of being saved. I have always considered myself a cold polished blade. I am hard and sharp and heavily constructed, like a glittering city on a hill.  A city on a hill with a deep mote and surrounded my strong brick walls.

I am beautiful, yes. This is not in question. But I am not beautiful like a flower - Not delicate and pastel like foliage fading in the sun…  No, I am Beautiful like a forest fire: Raging and wild - All consuming and self renewing like a black dancing skyline. This is what I think of myself. But I’m wondering if it’s true lately, because a forest fire doesn’t cover its face when it cries, and I do this thing where I raise my hand in front of my face to cover my eyes…

“I’m sorry.  I’m sorry. I’m so silly. I’m fine. It just caught me by surprise. I’m sorry.”

 

“I was in love; he wasn’t.”
— Unknown (via perfect)

(via perfect)

My NEW Jam!!

“You have to have something to say; you have to know how to say it; and you have to have the courage to say it at all - And that’s the hardest one.”
— Maya Angelou

Q

Anonymous asked:

I love your site, beautiful phillosophy. Nobody is as beautiful as we once were (physicaly), but if we are very lucky we can love ourselves, life, and our fellow humans with all their flawed glory

A

Thank you! I couldn’t agree more!

“When you strive to heal an addiction you are reaching for your highest goal. It is profoundly spiritual.”
— Gary Zukav