Where I am folded, no one can see. Often, I cannot even see myself.
Where I am folded, there are jagged scars and the echoes of ugly words. Dark colors live here; blood red and black, smears of grey and mustard and stagnant olive.
Where I am folded, there is little in the way of sunrise, flowing water, or loose soil. It may have begun as the defensive curl of a leaf, but somehow… somehow over time it hardened into a petrified forest of cold stone from which I could not escape. A living mausoleum of meanness, small beliefs, self hatred, and deep disconnection.
Where I am folded, I live on auto-pilot. There is no choice, for the landscape of awareness is barren. Not even a tumbleweed in sight. Things happen, and I simply react.
Where I am folded, my spirit waits.
Through lightning and rain, through the gushing waters of time, my spirit has waited in its small tomb of stone. Waited for the sharp crack of the sledge hammer. Time after time. Blow after blow, until pieces began to fly. Chunks and slivers, hard clay and glacial ice-fronts sliding into the ocean with a thunderous applause.
Over and over again, You came at me from every side, and I fell. Over and over again I fell, split, cracked, and dissolved into a cloud of dust at Your feet.
Now when Your chisel rests upon my back, there is a long moment in which breath comes into me. For You have come back. You have not forgotten that I am not done yet. That I am not only no longer numb — I am longing for the next piece to come loose. Longing to be taken apart. Longing to be true before You. To become Truth before Your heavy, swaying picture.
I am too alone in the world, and not alone enough
to make every minute holy.
I am too tiny in this world, and not tiny enough
just to lie before you like a thing,
shrewd and secretive.
I want my own will, and I want simply to be with my will,
as it goes toward action,
and in the silent, sometimes hardly moving times
when something is coming near,
I want to be with those who know secret things
or else alone.
I want to be a mirror for your whole body,
and I never want to be blind, or to be too old
to hold up your heavy and swaying picture.
I want to unfold.
I don’t want to stay folded anywhere,
because where I am folded, there I am a lie.
And I want my grasp of things
true before you. I want to describe myself
like a painting that I looked at
closely for a long time,
like a saying that I finally understood,
like the pitcher I use every day,
like the face of my mother,
like a ship
that took me safely
through the wildest storm of all.
~ Rainer Maria Rilke