It Takes a Village

This past week I could have died.

But didn’t.

It’s a good thing too, because I’m not done here yet.

There’s no lasting damage, though my body has been recovering these past few days. It was more or less a desperate cry from my body in the form of an allergic reaction.

This isn’t a post about chasing your dreams or accomplishing goals that warrant trumpets and fanfare after close brushes with death.

It’s about the subtle realization that you cannot do either of those things alone.

That is the glue we often forget when constructing those grand entryways to the spacious interiors of our dreams.

For years, I steeled myself against the need of others, searching for the flaps to button up as though walking into a bitter wind.

What I know now, is that we hate relying on others only when we misunderstand life’s truths.

The outright refusal to acknowledge that at some point, we must let others in to help because yes, islands withstand the impact of waves, but they never know the pure joy of being able to ride them.

My need of an Epi-Pen and having to explain it to those around me touched on the fact that I may need someone to save my life.

Whether or not we want to, we must trust.

What we trust in is entirely up to us.

Fear. Love.

Everything in between is a grey shade of these two pillars.

While awake and thinking about my vulnerability in the midst of painful navigation of what food I can now eat, I took to my journal last week:

To admit that I might need others is to confess something more.

A prospect more frightening.

That there are those I may not be able to live without.

That I cannot do without.

That there are things others might use against me.

That I am fallible.

That I can fall.

With greater frequency than I can fail.

No more than the last leaf clinging to a tree before the first snow.

That is me.

No more than that.

No more than,

is the inescapable condition.

It is the cost and currency of learning to fly.

Standing on the ragged edge, first.

The simple needs,

That further complicate our form.

Safety from the strong winds.

Swinging ‘to and ‘fro on the fulcrum of,

“please don’t let me down,”

“I hope they don’t hate me for it,”

“They don’t understand,”

“I never had the chance to explain,”

We find ourselves bracing for the rain.

And the lightning and thunder too.

And the losses and heartbreaks,

With the sadness and change.

Yet we refuse to give up walking in the rain.

Dancing even still,

because we know that somewhere the sun still shines.

That we have umbrellas to get us through.

To protect us in the worst of downpours.

But to need one at all,

is not a sign of the weak and weary.

But that we had the strength to walk in the rain at all.

because we wanted to taste the sweetness of life so bold,

that we dared live at all.

When they say it takes a village, they aren’t kidding and the truth of it will have its way with us regardless of what we think about it.

It is okay to have a village.

You are part of villages already.

Why not your own?

You cannot stay open to life and remain closed to the people in it.

And the cost of staying closed is far greater than the pain you once knew, which caused you to close your doors that final time.

Stay open as though your life depended on it.

Because reactions aside, in the end it does.

The opening in you also gives the world a view unlike anything its ever known.

Let it all in.

Love it all out.

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On The Wings of Miracles,

~Cheryl~

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