I think about holding hands. We rarely hold hands the normal way, which feels right, given this isn’t “normal.” Two fingers holding onto two fingers, usually the first two, sometimes the pinky and ring finger. The gesture struck as distant at first, as if the whole hand was too much commitment. But now I see the two fingers hooked into mine as insistent. Saying, look, this is how we do things. This is us according to us, not them. Holy.
I think of the conversations. The shared truth we find in each other. The bravery we are forced to call on again and again to find that truth. The way we so often do not blink in the face of vulnerability but join hands and jump in together. The depths of myself I have excavated simply by sharing a mirror with one another, another Other. That is my divinity.
So divine is the desire to know oneself and share it with another as deeply as possible. We are the only ones who can find, know, cherish who we are. The cherishing, that deep witnessing, anoints our truest selves.
We are not figures who fit neatly into definitions but write them for themselves, who opt for self-knowing over easily configurable explanations. Some stay in the mystery forever, choosing non-conformity over certainty. We shine by knowing ourselves, not waiting for some great light from above to choose us. We seek, craft, conjure our own blinding light of authenticity. There, we proclaim ourselves. There, we find home.
And oh, there is a grief in it too. It comes in a million tiny ways, a million little deaths to the life you imagined. The way your life will never quite mirror most of those around you, the life you were taught to pray for. The undeniable loneliness of forging your own path that continues to diverge from the ones you read about, were read from, were handed. The millions of tiny (and not-so-tiny) exclusions and judgments, the misunderstanding and ignorance. The constant uncertainty of acceptance, of passing. Wondering how safe it is to shine that light on full brightness.
The ache of choosing other over and over, even when you know it’s right. The devotion can waver from weariness.
But the otherness starts to feel less other and more innate. ‘Normal’ now feels more other. An aura of unfamiliarity around it. Why do people choose to stay there? Don’t they know how much they’re just following along? How much they’re missing by not questioning any part of it? The well-worn path isn’t bad, per se, but it lacks surprises. The questioning is more arduous – that can’t be refuted – but the beauty it brings is its own sort of salvation. Some might say there’s no hallelujah without hardship. Absent the tint of exploration, the world is distinctly more muted.
It is in this exploration that I have cultivated my own certainty that each of us holds a bounty of divinity. An immutable truth so pure it cannot be denied or contained. The path of discovery may be tiring, but it is rife with joy, too. The seeking bubbles over with delight, ecstasy, pride, all undergirded by a sense of knowing and trust in oneself. A steady truth, worn like a necklace brought habitually to the lips as a reminder.
I am bountiful. I am divine. I am me. I am.
I love the way your brain works!
This was beautiful