i don't think i realized just how little permission i was giving myself in my own femininity and my own faith. the more i write, the more i tell my own story, the more i discover secret links of the chain that was holding me down. this post was another inch of the door, another chapter of my story that i was letting into the open.
:: i was learning to let my story breathe. i was learning how to have faith.
but there was still that guilt. there was this whispering little tug at the back of my mind, pulling me away from the freedom and reminding me just how much more comfortable the darkness was...how much safer i felt when no one could see me.
i was like the kitten that hides under a couch, the tip of her tail poking out, but absolutely sure that no one can see her. she was invisible, and that was okay.
but i never had permission to be unseen. isn't that funny? i didn't have permission to tell my story, and it felt safer when i wasn't seen, but then, i was an extrovert. being seen came with the territory. tucking myself away wasn't okay, it wasn't part of the plan for me. was it? i grew up in the church, and that was my faith, and that was my way, and i didn't ask questions because i was just supposed to know. right?
and then they came, the inaudible words, soft and bitter, clawing at my confidence.. is it okay? are you sure you know what you're doing? what does He think of this? you're too wild. what would they think if they could see you like this?
i'm learning for it to be okay. i wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole. and she smiled and made a few more little comments before she found a reason to slip away into the crowd. and then i realized :: it's okay. i'm okay. He sees, He knows.
the more i tell my story, the more pieces of me i let out, the more i feel like i'm being poured out as almost a literal drink offering on the ground. and it's exhausting. i see all these things happening around me and i feel pulled in a thousand directions. but who's doing the pulling?
there's no handbook laid out for exactly what the qualifications are to be "good enough." except there is, and everyone else seems to know every single word. and here i am, sitting at my computer, with my hair in a messy ponytail and feeling so much wild-er than is considered "appropriate."
but He isn't safe. He's good, oh, so good. and i have a Lion at my back to roar bravery when i'm the stammering clumsy mess who can't make my story come out right. it's pressing myself against the banks of the river and lowering my mouth to the water. unsure, but drinking deep, because He has swallowed up much and i am thirsty.
i have permission to drink.