We’re all wounded here.
And who am I but another wounded one
bearing a light so heavy.
Who am I
but an empty vessel
offering to god’s feet.
It’s deluded to call ourselves healers, as if our hands can mend brokenness.
To think it is us alone that
births a breathing soul
that heals a broken body
shape shifting miracles.
We are but instruments
in a greater unfolding.
It is through us that the world shifts.
Let this be a daily prayer
whispered in the body of the sun rising.
Let this body be a paintbrush, words of yours spoken through my tongue
let these hands move in your rhythm.
When I hear the doubtful voice: who do you think you are
the light becomes heavy
I am also wounded.
Yet
I remember, I remember
who am I but yours?
who am I but of you?
who am I but yours?
***
Some days I become overwhelmed when I see a world so broken. Back home, so many are riddled with sickness, their bodies full of dis-ease that does not heal. Depression, fear of wars, of death, of scarcity. Some days I am overwhelmed when I see this deep suffering, confusion.
Within, I ask: how could I help. Then who am I to think these small hands of mine can mend, who am I to think my words hold any value. This doubt freezes a response; with it comes paralysis: who do you think you are, who do you think you are. What empowers me, us, is the realisation that it is not us but through us that the healing happens. We are dust particles yet our presence here, our arrival, is so necessary. Our very presence here, now, is of utmost importance.
It is not us, but through us.
So loosen the grip on the idea that you yourself are anything else but an instrument in the hands of god. Ground yourself into a softening and allow, allow something greater than you to flow through. When you hear the whisper of your smallness – remind yourself – I am an instrument. Let this be my prayer.
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