This week was rough.
The kind of rough I couldn’t manage or control.
So, I expected this week to have some sort of happy ending—where the big mess would be cleaned up with a thick paper towel and some 409.
I anticipated aching less by Friday afternoon.
Yet, here I sit in the sun—broken by my lack of control.
They seem like odd friends who would never be invited to the same event.
And, still, I sit here with the two of them, eventing it up.
Each morning when I open my eyes for the first time, I usually find the sunlight trickling through the blinds and onto my covers. Often, I turn my body into the light, seeing how much of it I can get on my skin without falling out of bed.
In this season, it’s incredibly important to let the light dance on my skin.
And, yet, the light feels remarkably heavy, too.
Standing underneath it feels weighty.
I want to both savor the weight and cry out from its density.
For me, right now,
I feel like I’m fighting to understand what light does.
What it heals.
What it hurts.
What it kills.
I’ve always perceived light as a stop sign—a warning of potential problems if not heeded.
But, I think light is more like a trusted friend—one who can both kick my butt and still hold my soul. And, in order to stay friends with light, I have to exchange my dislike of its weighty friendship for a desire to be stronger myself.
It seems strange that light could be asking me to come as I am and still get stronger.
I am both strong.
And, somehow, that feels refreshing.