A while back I was contemplating my advanced spiritually—how I had come so far from the pain of my past, growing into a confident woman needing nothing to validate or complete her. I was feeling strong and autonomous. Looking back on it now perhaps I was a bit overly confident, but hey, I worked hard for that confidence, so what if I walked with a swagger. It was at this point that life challenged me—silently watching as I ran headlong into a perfect storm, foolishly believing that my power and instincts were infallible.
Oh foolish woman, handing over your power like worthless crumbs; how long wilt thou turn back to the beggarly elements of self-doubt?
The thing about the flesh is that it never changes, and the pink insecurities of my ten-year-old self still resides beneath the weathered surface of my aged epidermis. My weaknesses don’t magically disappear just because I’ve grown to understand them. They will forever rise out of my life—rocky shoals that I must navigate around like a seasoned sailor, respecting the ancient places and the unpredictability of the sea.
After many fruitful years of pain and ponderings I have come to the conclusion that denial is delusion dressed in a sensible suit, and naivete, ignorance in its infancy.
So she said, with eyes wide opened.