Out of Darkness Something Beautiful Blossoms

Have you ever journeyed into the depths of your pain and cried with your entire being? I mean with every last cell and molecule, hurling your heavy sadness into the air and hearing the echo of your emptiness as you howl and gasp for breath. Have you ever found yourself tangled in the emotional wreckage, utterly twisted and crumpled and broken like the gnarled, fractured metal skeleton of a car crash, a hollow shell of yourself, unable to pick your retching body up off the floor?

This is a monster. Love, life, loss, pain, tragedy, whichever face it's wearing when it comes to get you. But I'm talking about love. Jaw-clenching, soul-baring, gut-wrenching, painful, real love; complete with red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes, splitting head, and churning insides. That resounding desolation where no one can hear your violent sobs, that chasm of aloneness that you spiral into - that's where love goes when it breaks. And if you can't let go, it takes you with it, dragging you precipitously over the jagged cliffs of the abysmal pit before you get swallowed whole by the fiery hell and succumb to the burning as the walls cave in around you.

After you feel like you've expelled your innards and cried every last tear and diced up what's left of your heart, as you look up from your spot on the ground waiting for the skies to open and bathe you in fresh rain to wash away your salty teardrops, you realize it's still not over.

When you open your puffy eyes and try to stand on your weakened, shaky legs you fall down again, tumble, collapse into a pathetic heap. You try to think, imagine, plan your next steps; rebuild, regroup, recover. But as your temples throb and your body aches from all the heaving, you curl yourself up into a ball and clutch empty air inside your fists because that's all your shattered psyche can handle.

You don't know how it got this way or if it can be fixed - sewn, stitched, glued, bandaged, repainted, rebuilt, reassembled; you just know it has to be different, right now, one way or another. It is in these times and these dark places that our true strength is tested. Our resolve, our will, and our faith are tried. It's not a question of how long it takes to recover, or in what way we self-medicate or lick our wounds, rather how we choose to carry on and what new reality we cling to.

From the blackest, most charred and barren spirits who despair in their shattered dreams, hope springs. From the longest nightmares and the deepest cuts, something beautiful blossoms. Maybe it's a second chance, a rebirth of an existence that fell off track. Maybe it's a fresh start, a new beginning, a breath of life to revive a dream, a soul, a heart.

The road to recovery is usually long. Whether it's long and winding, slow and steady, or more crisply focused than you've ever seen; use that clarity, use that strength, use that steadfast determination and turn them into golden bits of inspiration to climb that mountain, turn that corner in your soul, become stronger than ever before, and surprise yourself when you're able to look back over your shoulder at everything you've put behind you and say "I did it."

Don't grow cold, don't wall off your heart. Put miles under your feet or your wheels if you must; but don't be afraid to dig your heels into the ground if that's what you're being called to do. Close the door to the past if you must, and start opening some new ones if that's what your heart needs. Or hold someone tighter and with more intensity than you've ever held them before. Tell them you're not letting go.

Believe in second chances - they just might be life-savers. Trust your gut and listen to your heart.  Flee or put roots down.  Fly, flourish, conquer. But don't go rushing to decide right away: let your wounds heal; pick yourself up and dust yourself off, because there's more in store for you.

And I hope it's beautiful.