Every last thread belongs to me.
I hang on to them all.
I swing hopefully between them as a monkey, wide-eyed, might swing from vine to vine.
Always trying to anticipate the next tear, the next rip, the next unfurling.
It becomes hard to hang on after a time. My hand slides, and the friction of the remnant fibers create an unappreciated rub of heat. But these hands aren’t meant for looking pretty. They are meant for telling stories and they are being made course and callous in preparation for a day when something soft and delicate holds them, unfolds them, reads them and heeds them, unlocks their secrets and tales, and sets them free. They will be wrapped in threads of love.
But those will be first threads. For now, every last thread is home. But just because it’s a last thread, doesn’t mean its a bad thread. Some last threads last quite a good long while. And I haven found more and more that a whole conglomeration of threads holding me up can cause me to be complacent, in relying on their provisional security.
And sometimes when there are too many threads, they can get in a tangle and bind me up. It seems to be on the fringe, on the edge of things where I thrive, where life is most full. It is by no means comfortable on the brim, wading in the outskirts, making home in the verge, perusing the borderline, risking every margin, dancing in the brink, and playing in the lion’s mane. But it is an exceptionally beautiful place to be, if you will allow it to be.
Comfort is overrated. Comfort creates self-dependence, lessening my ability and need to look outside of myself for…well, for nearly anything. I am frail and broken and not entirely altogether. Why would I complete my trust in such an imperfect structure posed to crumble even from the whispiest of winds?
When I realize and remember that I have everything to gain and nothing to lose, it is then that risking to build bridges overcomes the fear of the broad gaps and fierce canyons. It is when I look around and see that there are plenty of others hanging onto or by a last thread, I remember I am part of the threaded web that weaves our existence and connects me and all of my strangeness to this peculiar, tumultuous, wild and uncomfortable world of humanity.
And so, continue to hang on, friend. Explore the uneasy but life-furthering threadscape of life with me. With us. With all of the other unpretty hands of humanity.
Denver, CO ¦¦ August 25, 2018
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