I can feel my perspective evolving…as though I am outside my own life and moving ever-so-slowly to a new window through which I can understand my current circumstances from an upside down angle.
I can see it all, all the wounds and the quiet space where the war was lost all those years ago.
I see that everything I’ve experienced, all the trauma and disappointment has indeed left me in ruins. A city of ruins and rubble.
My response to this familiar scene has been challenged. All these years I have petitioned for the rubble to be cleared away so that the streets are fresh and new. I wanted to be rebuilt – just as before. Restoration was my heart cry. I wanted to be a tall glistening city in the sunshine. Restored in such a way that people would be shocked if they ever discovered I had been in ruins.
To leave all of this devastation in my past – move forward as if the walls had never cracked and fell.
But now, through my new window, I see it’s not restoration but redemption coming to me.
With conflicting emotions I am accepting that the perpetrators will never return to take responsibility for their missiles which flew…they will never remove their pieces of rubble and repay what was lost.
What is done, is done. Done is the most final of ways.
My healing will not come by brick and stone, but through dust and dirt, flowers and gold.
My ruins, my rubble, my pain, my hurt, my heartbreak are all embers now cooled to ash…ash which is slowly becoming my greatest prize.
For it is the canvas upon which my Artist will paint his masterpiece.
Amongst my most broken parts he pours dirt and gold, sprinkled with seeds and grace. He covers me in thick, strong, fertile hope.
And he waters me…until the wild begins to grow.
Roots wind deep into my broken stone. No longer dry as bone my ruins nourish my garden with newborn life. Seeds sprout, breaking through dirt and ash, fighting for sunlight under which they can unfold like origami. I step back and see only glimpses of my brokenness, here and there, under a blanket of wildflowers, laced with lush green growth and sparkling golden veins.
Life is falling forward at a hungry pace. It bursts and blooms, sparkles and sings…radiant beauty twinkles visible from distant lands.
So many are attracted to my garden. So many want to come and walk through it. Marvel at its vulnerable beauty and quiet song.
It’s a wonderland. An undeniable wonderland.
Only I and the Artist know the foundations upon which this dreamland rests. The rubble breath the skin.
It’s not shame which covers my ash under the bloom, rather it is honour.
Honour which understands that without ash there is no beauty.
Without destructions and brokenness there is no new life.
Here, within my deepest scars, I find my deepest joy. Where my unspeakable pain bore witness to my darkness day, my heart now hosts a castle of light.
I’m learning that our life is gifted to us in layers. We think we only have one page upon which to paint…but in truth we have page upon page, book upon book, day upon day, season upon season…all available for us to paint something and then turn the page to paint yet again.
Where the sunsets it leaves another invitation for the dawn, to yet again, rise.
Every day there is a spectacular death followed by a new day life. A eternal dance in the sky from light to dark, day to night, death to life. And we watch the deep blue cinema and still we wonder how to ride these cosmic waves which seemingly wash away our life. But I am discovering that death follows life and life follows death.
My garden flourishes upon my city of smoke and ruins…and one day my garden will set like the sun and a new, more beautiful, layer will rise with the dawn.
[Art by Picomodi]