The Cauldron

This has been a dark spring and summer for me—six months, two seasons of the year gone. I have been undergoing personal issues that will not be denied. I thought I had survived the two dark nights of the soul that I would be called upon to bear. All of you know my story. Loss of a child, loss of a spouse. My son and I have tried to soldier on, but sometimes the wounded fall and need help getting back up. We are in that situation.

I have also been told that my old life is being destroyed and that I will rise from the ashes a third time. Right now the ashes are sodden with tears. I have put out my own fire in an ironic fashion. Am I down for the count? No way, Jose. My regular readers know that it will take more than depression to bring me down. I am very much a survivor—just one who cries a lot.

We are seeing a family counselor. Yesterday was my time to go alone. I sat there in his office and tried to describe where I am. At the end of the hour, I said, crying, “It just all feels so hopeless.” He said, “I will hold that hope for you.”

“Where do you see hope in us?” I said.

“I see your strength, your core wholeness. It takes a lot of vulnerability to be as strong as you are. I see your son’s intelligence, his kindness. It’s just that the two of you have been through rough storms and have had to rely on each other. Now you need to set your boundaries again, to know that each of you can go on with some hope.”

I said, “Once I was in a group where we were paired off with strangers and just sat and looked into their eyes for several minutes. Then we were asked to give a couple of adjectives about the other person. This is how she described me, “vulnerable and powerful.”

Mark just looked at me and smiled gently. “Yes, what I just said.”

“Where do you see yourself going?” he asked me. “How do you see your life?”

“I see myself living a simple life, where I write and record, walk, have lunch with a friend occasionally. Extroverts can spread themselves thin; I can’t. I stay in one place and go deep. For me, my writing is a calling. It’s about the Word, about being true to it.”

The old house where Mark works is a warm and inviting space. The floors squeak when you walk; you have to hook the bathroom door when you close it. It is groaning under the weight of people like me who are in need of spiritual conversation. I sit on the old leather couch clutching a pillow as I share my story with him.

“I am taking tai chi and after every session I come home and cry more than I have in years. My instructor says I am moving energy and that’s a good thing.” Mark listens to me like I need to be listened to. He is hearing my inner child stir a bit. I am listening to her say she is ready for change, that she trusts Mark and I to help her dance again. It won’t be easy but it is necessary.

I have a dear friend who has the gift of prophecy. She tells me that my life is changing to a higher vibratory rate and it’s all good. Yes, breaking down can be a very good thing, a very God thing. Don’t let people tell you otherwise.

The light is shining on my inner world. But thunderclouds build, discharging the pelting rain that heals old wounds. I shall move mountains; I shall heal the nations. That is what we are called to do. We are not called to sit in front of the TV, be mall rats or act cool in any way whatsoever. The nations are inside of me. They are ready to be free.


  1. I agree completely, Dear Heart, breaking down can be a good thing…a God thing. I seldom use the latter word these days, but it has its place. No need to discuss all that here 😉

    I love the words of the Paul Simon song: “Before you learn to fly, learn how to fall.” You fall and you soar…I have seen it in your writing. Keep shining your light on your inner world…you light ours too.

    Just by chance a friend writes as her status update today: “Things are not falling apart, they are just re-arranging themselves.” -Anonymous. Perfect.


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