I was typing up the entry from Thursday, August 18.  I usually try to type them about month after they were written.  This blew me away because it’s such an obvious lead-in to the post about the “flash” of knowledge that God loves my faults, which came only a few days later.  It helps me get that this work is done in layers, that each discovery has to be made again and again at deeper levels of embodiment.

Journal entry from 8/18/15

Woke up feeling sad and empty.  What will I do with the rest of my life?

The book by the guy who started TWLOHA came and I started to read it.  It’s a series of short pieces.  He mentions reading Anne Lamott’s Traveling Mercies, so I got it out too and read them in tandem.  Jamie’s book is called If You Feel Too Much.  In both books there is mess and brokenness, but also love and connection.  I will have to read Jamie again and mark the quotes I want to copy.  I’m getting a sense that all of us are broken in different ways, that even in our broken-ness we can help each other.  Perhaps only in our brokenness do we have the compassion and understanding to help.  I’m starting to see that even in my brokenness I can help others, I can make a difference.  It’s also true that people can love me in my brokenness.  I think of Eve and Lee Ann who both hugged me hard and said “I love you so much.”

This is something entirely new: to see that I can help, that I matter, that I can be loved, even though I am broken.  This seems astonishing.  I must have been assuming all along that I couldn’t really help, couldn’t really matter, couldn’t really be loved, unless I was healed.  Like other things that have been so fundamental in my life I only see it when it is gone, disproved.

So now I’m down in the pit with all the other broken ones.  We’re all in this together, and we’re doing the best we can, and we need to ask each other for help.

I’ve been wanting to heal because I wanted to be able to enjoy my life.  Now that doesn’t seem so important.  Compassion and community seem so much more important.

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