Damn That's Sweet

There are many of me, all tumbled together under this skin of mine. Each with her own strengths and extremes, each having been influenced by the experiences of this ordinary, yet not so ordinary life. This goes far beyond the hats I wear, for those are just roles I play, dependent on circumstance. I speak of who I am regardless of circumstance; with-in each circumstance. But who I am is not whole. I am in pieces, waiting to be reconciled and made into one. And I am not at peace with my-selves.

These many of me, who dictate how I will behave and react, do not play well with each other.

The Strong One with her blazing sword and love for truth and justice like to be in control. She is desperate for God’s approval and yet angry with God; asking why the Kingdom is not here yet and everything made right. She is the protector. She fights for others and also for all of me. But she can hurt others with her force. She can be unyielding in her ways. Often, when thinking she is protecting the others of me, she in reality holds a death grip and is bringing us to our knees.

There is also the Little One. She was found one day, hiding in the depths, a dry place with no light, between empty trunks under a layer of think dust. She is beautiful, generous, and kind. She is the one with compassion and grace. She is vulnerable and easily scared. Yet she holds her own strength; she can bend and not break, lead through yielding. She swims the emotional depths and she likes girly things.

Within me there is a Student, who loves wisdom and knowledge and would spend her last cent on yet another book.

There is a Rebellious one, who’s mantra is “Oh heEEell no.” and likes to stir things up just for the fun of it.

The One with Wonder wants nothing more than to soak up the sun, swim in a water fall and make flower wreaths. She is childlike and revels in just being. When handed a camera she is more likely to take a picture of a rock than a sweeping vista. Sabbath is supposed to be her special day. Her voice was stolen, and it’s hard to hear her since she can now only whisper.

Then there is the Creator whose imagination won’t sit still. She sneaks her imaginings into the physical world in various ways. She lives upstairs and gets annoyed when those who live elsewhere in me complain of hunger or cold.

I am sure there are others; pieces and shards of the original image that long to be found and reconciled. I long to be made whole again. Yet resurrection hurts, and I can only handle so much at a time. But I have hope that what has been begun in me will, eventuall, be brought to completion.