There’s a pile in my closet:
a skirt too small,
a shirt too stained,
pants too worn.
They wait, expectantly, for a transformation,
for deft scissors and clever thread,
a re-imagination of grace.
But I hang in the moment between
the death of the old and the birth of the new,
hesitating between despair and fear.
Yet —
seed becomes flower,
not by a tenacious clinging to what was,
but by a reckless hope in what is to come.
Surrender, sacrifice:
words to shrink from, yet without them
the present stalls, withers and fades.
For us, reclamation is not inevitable.
Our willingness is required:
to take scissors in hand,
(deep breath, now)
and begin in hope.
Image by TooMuchCoffeeMan from Pixabay
Yes, our willingness is required. So good.
Loved it.
Sometimes I also stay too long “… in the moment between the death of the old and the birth of the new.” And then I struggle to find the door.