Sitting With the Mess

(Kids and I have continued our fairly sick winter. And now I am under-the-weather, again. Ugh. I'm trying to stay positive, but must admit that this sick business is getting old. So, I've been posting here less frequently but hope to be back more once I perform the germ exorcism, scheduled for this evening.)

Lately, I've been thinking very much about a brilliantly simple phrase, shared with me by my dear friend and Life Coach Rita Hyland. "Sometimes, Denise, you just have to sit with the mess." As someone who has always liked nice neat corners, tidy rooms and clean resolutions, when Rita first said this her words bounced off my belief system. it did not compute. Sit with the mess? No way. Figure it out, fix it, clean it and move on.

Luckily, Rita's words permeated and infiltrated my old beliefs. I've shifted, knowing that she's brilliantly correct. In the dark, messy spaces sit nuggets of insight and growth. My friends and I, all churning through different complex parts of our lives, have been chewing on this wisdom. It calms. It fits. It helps. It intuits wisdom to deal with the inevitable mess of life. It gave me permission to sit, get dirty and grow.

*****

I sit, watching, wondering.

Perplexed by the intensity of force of

Dark, surging waters.

Gray.

Muddled.

Pounding.

Shallow eddies crescendo to a delirious, towering walls of water.

Waves pummeling. Water penetrating.

At times, I sense a disembodiment,

watching from afar

But I know am the water; she sits within me.

Feeling each white-capped slice of wave

As an extension of my soul.

I dive in, into myself.

Into the uncertain mess.

I want to know what she knows. What I know.

I don't wish for calm,

placid waters and blue skies.

I don't force the return of tranquility.

I don't paint a sunny day on my salt-water

strewn, disheveled face.

I sit. With the

Angst.

Pain.

Uncertainty.

Sensitivity.

Decades old hurts, now expired.

Possibility creeps in, holding hands with the

faintest rays of the sun, breaking through charcoal clouds.

I sit with the mess. And the power within.

I stop silencing it, and myself. Voices released,

swelling majestically over the briny, gray squalls of the ocean,

flying away with the mist.

(Note: This type of writing is a huge departure from my norm. I'd love to get your input--constructive (really!!) or positive--so I can continue to get better. I'd also like to thank Christa and Alita for they each recently wrote beautiful pieces about the water and their words inspired mine.)