I rose early this morning upon waking, still sleepy, but I am driven from my bed by then and there. How terribly then and there has a way of running interference on the rest to be had in the here and now.
I must rise upon waking — it is a symbol to me of volition and self governance. For year after miserable year I was forced to remain, using invisible chains.
This urgent need to rise is a resistance to captivity — a physical statement of choice. I am grown and I can go — so I do. If ever I am bedridden, my family knows my wishes. Set me free into the liberty that the end of life can bring. For the love of all that was traumatized — don’t leave me in that bed.
I was at the gym yesterday on a cardio machine. They have televisions everywhere that jockey for your attention — despite despising — I watch. A boy was boxing blindfolded at his Taekwondo lesson, when a man in full military grab entered the boxing area. The man delivered gentle blows and softly egged the boy on saying, “Come on… come on,” using a pet name that only his father would know. The boy thought he was sparring with his instructor. The boy recognised the voice of his long awaited and beloved father ripped off his gloves and blindfold — dove into his fathers arms. The father crooned of how proud he is of his boy, how much he missed him — father and son weep over each other — and I over them.
A sweet home coming.
When I was younger I understood inherently that I needed saving — very practically I did. I have lived forever in advent — watching, waiting, and hoping for rescue. There is an ache to Advent that I wish I could brush aside but to no avail. There is something that was lost in the there and then that is lost forever — even as the here and now is infinitely better.
Home coming was never sweet to me.
There is so much lost there and then that an inventory is a study in human misery, despair, and deprivation. Years of therapy, meaning making, and repurposing pain can make me feel like progress is being made. Then one little real life vignette in the midst of sweat underscores what was lost, what was longed for, and what will never be.
It puddles me.
Wherever the inevitable Advent finds you, just know that I know, that you are not alone, and that the ache of Advent is near universal. Humanity groans under the weight of something malevolent — under invisible chains.
Rising is an act of resistance.
The there and then and even the here and now is nothing compared the homecoming that will be. On this I hang all of my hope that…
Someday, homecoming will be sweet.