Being Beloved


Beloved.

That’s what I am.  Broken, of course, but also Beloved.  Beautiful.  Perfect.  Enough.  

It’s funny how, although there are plenty of times when that’s near impossible to believe, I never seem to truly forget it.  It’s as if I clench my fists and cling to my misery, my moody melancholy, instead of opening up my heart and freely embracing the gift I’ve been given.  I have a tendency to sequester myself away, to pretend that I don’t give a damn and that no one gives a shit about me, but I know there’s more to me and the people around me than I’m readily willing to admit.  Why?  Because it seems too good to be true, so I curl back into my furtive hyper-vigilance, as if I could master myself and control others.  But really, it’s so much better, so much more freeing, to simply let go. 

I can’t un-believe the truth of who I am.  It has been seared into my soul, and it would seem that often enough, at precisely the right times and places and in the right ways, there are reminders that carve the knowledge even deeper into the core of my being.  I never truly forget.  I simply misplace my perspective, shelving the truth, putting it on hold as I am snared by the lies.  Yet I can choose to pick the treasure up again, embrace what is real and true.  I can, and I must.  

Last night, I found myself itching for pen and paper, ink to scribble away with.  Luckily, I Had some at my side.  As my parents slept off their traveling exhaustion, and my brother lost himself in a world of dragons and magic (he’s been reading Eragon), I put down my own tale of carnivals and goblins (Twilight Eyes, by Dean Koontz) to indulge my soul.  The words were ripe, ready to be shared–if only with myself.  But now they can be shared with you too, and I’m quite excited.  

I made a list.  A while back, I found myself making a firm decision in an attempt to ward off a fire that would melt me away, a flood that would drown me.  I took my stand on a truth that would put bedrock in place of he sinkhole that was threatening to suffocate me, the black hole that wanted to create in me a void, hollow me out.  Today I’m going to love myself.  Because really, there’s no reason not to.  I’m discovering the depths of this truth more and more every day–in little moments, small victories, the simple delights of everyday life.  I’m becoming Beloved. I’m learning to love myself.  And here’s a little list that sums up my journey so far–things about myself that I embrace, that I love, that I am happy to be graced with.  

0~0~0

1. the assurance of knowing my identity IS Christ, IN Christ

2.  a never-ending, always strengthening, burning desire to love people as much and as best as God has allowed me to

3. reliable strength–physically, spiritually, emotionally, and mentally–even when I don’t realize it.

4.  a hypersensitivity to the world and people around me with all the sights, smells, colors, sounds, etc. that they have to offer

5. an ever-piqued curiosity, tendency toward fascination, and wild imagination that lets me live a million lives and more

6. the giddy high of all that i find delightful; that rapturous loss in things that overwhelm me to overflowing

7. everything (especially my scars) that reminds me of the journey so far and all the possibility, potential, and hope that lies ahead

8. a little extra squishy that’s all the better to cuddle with

9. the complex combination of quirks that create and color my perspectives, opinions, and personalities

10. a unique appreciation and awareness of aesthetics that often groups seemingly controversial and/or opposing factors and an unwavering belief in unshakable intrinsic worth

11. an appreciation for and awareness of the simple but powerful elements in life–words, music, laughter, food, colors, touch, nature, etc.  

0~0~0

 

Loving Myself,

The Scribbler

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About thefreescribbler

My life is one of words. I am a scribbler, whose thoughts are best expressed through adjectives and phrases and punctuation marks. I would not go so far as to call myself a writer, although many would disagree. I’m characterized more by my unfinished works and half-embodied ideas, scraps of stories and parts of poems. Maybe one day I’ll be a writer, but I’m okay with being a scribbler right now. It fits my personality and style, and best expresses my aims. I’m not trying to create some lofty version of literature. I’m just a kid blogging about life. View all posts by thefreescribbler

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