Being Touched

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This morning I was touched by my own predicament. On my knees on the sheepskins, not exactly praying, but not exactly not praying, either. Somewhere between exiting bed and entering clothes… crawling into another day.

And, today, I was touched by my own predicament. Touched in the understood sense of touched. My heart ached with tenderness. Salt water pressed behind my eyes, and I felt my little self, through the cracks where the light slips in. I often feel nothing, and that’s a predicament of it’s own. To paraphrase Mr. Cohen: it might be empty but that doesn’t mean it’s light.

Recently, I was discussing ‘being touched’ with my friends. I have this sense of myself being touched, even when I can’t feel it. That idea, if it is an idea, sustains me. Underneath the crushing weight of depression on a daily basis, I am touched by Grace.

When I say Grace, I mean both the mystery and the exquisitely, ordinary things. I don’t quite know how it has come to pass, that I can feel touched when I can’t feel. It’s a peculiar thing and if I think about it too much, I make my head hurt. I just know it makes it possible to keep practicing welcoming rather than fixing, this thing called depression.

As Leonard writes:

You got me singing
Even tho’ the news is bad
You got me singing
The only song I ever had

Somehow, I have found the only song I ever had… and it makes it okay to be in the world like I am. More than okay, in fact. More like at home.

Oh, precious Life… merciful, unforgiving, holy, terrible, ravaged  and beautiful, Life… whatever am I going to do with You?

 

 

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