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We cultivate love when we allow our most vulnerable and powerful selves to be deeply seen and known, and when we honor the spiritual connection that grows from that offering with trust, respect, kindness and affection - Brené Brown

I’m feeling frustrated and vulnerable. Yes, that’s what I said. Vulnerable. Starting something new, like a writing class, always makes me feel a bit Vulnerable. But I am getting better. My latest mission is to graduate from the ‘School of Not Giving a Shit’ with honors. That means I am deliberately going to let go of my guarded perfectionism and put things out that into the world that makes me uncomfortable.

Not just slightly uncomfortable, I mean the cringeworthy, “Oh my god, what are people going to think of me,” kind of crap. The sort of crap I’d rather keep hidden in the crevices of my being; the basement of my shame. But you know what, that’s what it feels like. The place down below where I store the shit that I don’t want anyone to see.

The dank, musty smelling place where the sun doesn’t shine. The pile of crap on top of crap that festers under the weight of denial, like a compost heap, where microorganisms meet Oxygen, decomposing solid waste into stinking matter.

Once the smell in the basement gets so bad, I can’t ignore it any longer; I bring it to the surface. Looking down at the pile of putrid compost, I can hardly remember what went into it. The regurgitated shit. The puke of old thoughts and feelings exhumed for inspection from the graveyard of the past. Is an autopsy necessary? Do we need to know what the contents were? Does it matter what leftover scraps of faded memories went into creating this heap of decaying slop?

Images rise with the fumes. The stench of Silage clings to my nostrils, and with it, scenes from a past best left shackled to an iron bed. Chomping at the bit to break free and wreak havoc on the present. Is that what the leftovers of our pasts are? Fodder for our personal growth. The more complex the variety of organic crap we’ve been through, the richer the resulting manure is for the proverbial garden of life?

Who knows? If the results are an abundant crop of crunchy turnips, stinking onions, and tender artichokes waiting for us to sink our teeth into them, then so be it.

With love and appreciation, Del 💕


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