Quiet Reflections and Prayers
I return to silence,
to truth.
And out of THIS silence
comes a new voice,
the voice of my soul
and the courage to speak
from THIS place —
no longer held captive
by the thoughts
that are not quite me.
Let them be
there.
Let it all
be there.
I will be
in a different place —
in reverence
of what is true.
It wasn’t about
trying so hard
to create,
really.
Healing my own
shattered heart
was an art,
not a formula.
It took the strength
of each piece
risking to trust
when it would have
made more sense
to turn away.
It took the strength
to reach
and to hold
with open hands —
without grasping
or needing to avoid
being left
alone
in my reaching
while praying
to God that
wouldn’t happen.
It was a risk
that at a certain point
had become
my greatest hope.
There was
a sense of connection
that couldn’t come
out of finally being
fully understood
on the surface.
It didn’t come out
of finally finding
all the answers
to endless questions.
It didn’t even really
come out
of anything
I had gathered
in my attempts
to find it.
This sense of connection
came out of
the whole journey —
through the pain of
rejection
and the willingness
to walk through
the unknown
in search of
whatever it was
I thought I was
reaching for.
But that was the strength
of the pure desire
to reach
and to know my own
true voice —
no matter what.
After a while,
life was less
about trying so hard
or forcing
pieces to come together.
It was more about
gently reconnecting
with my own heart,
including those pieces
that were uncomfortable
to hold
at first.
It was about reaching
for a higher self
and back.
It was about holding
and letting go
at the same time —
again and again.
I couldn’t see
how all those
pieces could ever
come together.
But I had decided
it was worth the risk
to continue on —
in trust.
And so I tossed
all that I thought
I knew
and opened my arms
to catch
whatever truth,
whatever pieces
came back down —
knowing there was
room for my own
reaching —
knowing I didn’t
reach alone.
There was a kind
of strength
that came out
of my deepest pain
and mixed with the
tenderness
shattered pieces of
my own heart had
worked so hard
to push down —
because they sensed
the amount of truth
they would cry out
was too much
for any one piece
to hold —
but they were never
seperate, really.
This strength found
a way
to reach up
just once more
when it had been
pushed down
too many times
to count.
This strength stood
and looked
at all that was
painful and terrible —
straight in the face.
And it vowed
to feel its own part
in it.
It agreed to keep reaching
because it had felt
the reaching back
of a hand
holding that same fear
that shook
in its own —
if only for
an instant.
My deepest posture
became one
of reverence.
I found my deepest
self could endure
much shaking
on the surface.
It could honor all
parts of the whole,
without clinging
to a set of ideas
I had thought
myself to be
for a while.
It was no longer
about winning.
It was about
finding a way through
a natural process,
where I had the
chance to participate
in my own evolution —
reaching for a hand —
encouraging others
through my willingness
to face
my own hidden pain
that was entangled
with theirs —
setting down
a false
sense of self
and bits of pride
in exchange for
natural beauty
and connection.
It was the hardest
and most simple thing.
I found
the more I looked
and anchored myself
just below the surface
and practiced filtering
all things
through my heart,
the more I was able
to filter out
pieces of truth.
I trusted in my ability
to know
when to pull back
and integrate,
taking care to
push just enough —
avoiding extreme
ups and downs.
I began to listen
and trust in my own
attention
and the gentle thoughts
that formed
out of emptiness,
through my willingness
to let go
of all of it
and my persistence
to wait patiently
for the slightest bit
of truth
that would carry me
safely to the next
needed step.
And so I stood
as the shattered pieces
of a self finding
its own heart.
There was a
quieting
in the midst
of the chaos
as it began
to sense
the different way
truth was felt
here,
the way it
flowed out
of all of its pieces —
the way it led
gently
into the place of
emptiness,
how it was moved
by the natural beauty
and delicate balance
of the very ground
of its own being —
where it was humbled
and without words
for a moment–
careful
not to impose.
When I really
got down to it,
the healer
in me
desired the same thing
as the part of me
hidden beneath
layers of distraction.
Parts of me
had gotten lost
in trying so hard
to protect
and process
as best they could,
while believing they were
separate.
The further away
they got,
the more attention
they demanded —
leading to a never-ending
struggle.
Relief came
in each moment
as I stood,
not as those fractured
pieces,
but as the whole —
reaching back
and embracing
that hidden part
that knew her own
voice —
welcoming
and releasing
all that stood
in-between.
Laurie's Notes 