Something Like an Epiphany

I was recently sharing stories and experiences from my past with a friend.  Some of them occurred several years ago, but I could still recall almost every detail. As I was describing events and conversations, there was a tiny light bulb from somewhere within…deeper than just my mind…my soul perhaps that demanded to be heard. You can still remember this? Why would you even want to? Why are you still holding on to all of this? What does it matter now? When your soul speaks, it is usually a good time to listen to it.

The past is so alluring…the victories, the good times, the hurts, and everything in between. There is a big part of me who wants to scream “Enough!” to those old thoughts and memories. I want to forget it all and go on. It is rather masochistic how many times our past pain is actually a source of comfort, like a thorn covered security blanket. It hurts, but we have had it for so long that we would not know what to do without it.

Truth is, letting go can be scarier than we want to admit. Than I want to admit. But how can I ask for integrity from others when I refuse to demand it of myself? To the degree that you are willing to be honest with yourself is how much you can heal and move on with your life. We can be honest to everyone except the person looking back at us in the mirror. It is much easier sometimes to remain victimized within ourselves.

I am tired of being scared and keeping an emotional distance because of something that happened to me in the past. Sure it was a big deal, but was/is it go great that I will allow this wrong to dictate my life? It is like I swing too far either way; not opening up at all or spilling my guts (which is what I did). There is a happy medium somewhere in there…just need to locate it. There are time when I feel as though I have almost found myself. But she can be a fleeting nymph, so the chase is still in progress.

I went through times in my life when I allowed the hurts and bad memories rob me of being hopeful. I don’t want to be jaded, seeing the glass as both half-full and being made of a breakable substance that isn’t worth caring about.

I remember a poem I wrote several years ago that began with “Flood the corridors of my soul with rays of a dawning hope…”


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