I wear my freedom like brass knuckles.
This freedom I live? It did not come without a fight, was not a gentle victory.
It was gift. Won hard by another. Then it was my job to bring fear under submission; Perfectionism to its knees; People pleasing to a messy end.
And now each day, I pick it up and I put it back on again. Just like the breast plate. Like the helmet. Like the shoes.
The freedom. It isn’t a mark of warfare, it is a simple choice to stand firm.
When the fear creeps like an insidious cloud on my horizon…I can still choose courage.
When I am sure that the whole of the world has turned on me. When I feel so broken and alone. I choose confidence instead…I will not fall off some cliff in my head.
When I hear about all the wars I could wage…I know I can still choose the peace.
When I know how many have already choose defeat…I can still choose triumph.
I slip it on. Over these fingers that could form fists. I choose to reach them out instead, lets walk this path together shall we?
There is no doubt that I’d be free and indeed I am. But that good book also said ‘stand firm’ in your freedom. Don’t take it for granted. Something about that standing firm, threatens slippage and some days…don’t you feel it?
Each morning, I can choose the freedom or that yoke there sitting in the other corner. Don’t you sometimes want to slip under that instead? Where all the answers look like a text book and all the mystery is solved? I do. Freedom…it gets messy some days. Loving all these broken people. Them loving me in all my frailty. Seeing all my truth? Sometimes I would rather hide, be someone elses slave. Those people…you know the ones?
This freedom here is too sweet. So I set out. Breaking yokes. Loosing the chains. Making free.
Fear. You can keep it.
Linking with Emily at Imperfect Prose.