How I wish it is lying on the ground so I can pick it up or floating on the surface of the water so I can scoop it, bag it and take it home for keeps. How I wish it was hanging low, so I can stretch my hands without straining and pluck it off. How I wish I could just walk over to my friends and borrowed theirs when I need it. How I wish I can watch or read up about those who have found theirs and somehow there can be an exchange of strength or some sort of impartation. How I wish I can just walk into a store, grab as many as I need, run it through the till and check out. How I wish I can lie on my cosy bed, holding tight to my padded hot water bottle and day dream it into existence. How I wish if I talk long and hard about it, it will just come and make it’s abode with me. How I wish if I look sorry enough, put out the victim vibe, cry my eyes out, I will obtain it out of pity. How I wish if I was depress and miserable enough, the strong will keep company with me and hand it over. How I wish if I wished strong and hard enough, wishes will become horses and I can mount and ride off on it.
But no, it does not work like that, I had to dig deep and hard. I had to go on a journey to the darkest place to find my strength. In the most difficult and thorny place it was hidden. I had known about the journey all long, but I dreaded it. There is nothing pleasant or convenient about finding the hiding place of my strength. It was easier to allow myself to be distracted, it was easier to accept instant gratification and temporary relief. It was easier to play safe and pretend that there was no nudging in my soul to embark on the journey. None could understand the journey except the few that had to embark on a similar course, the rest consider that I was crazy and who wants to be labelled? Acceptance has a more pleasant ring to it than rejection. So with my face set as flint and determination I commenced the search. What a difficult journey it is! Lonely as hell, but so the search continues, I was exhausted, drained, famished and parched throat, yet I could not drink from the pool along the way, I had to drink from the well of living water, for therein lies the strengthen. Neither could I eat the sweet and savoury food that were offered as I journey, the bread of life was my food. Fasting and praying I continued my journey, one heavy step in front of the other I progressed, keeping it tight and focused. How I wish there was an easier way.
In the midst of a majority of weak people there is always going to be a delimma to becoming strong. The loneliness of the break away becomes one’s portion. Why be strong when most are comfortable being weak? Why go down to Hades when there is a form of life up here? Why search for abundant life, when sufficient life will do? Why give up the crutches when it keeps us moving, even if not at an acceptable speed? Who defines acceptable anyway, speed is speed? The fear of being different consumed me, the fear of appearing as my authentic self, the fear of showing forth my glory, the fear of being good, the fear of being strong and solid, the fear of being worthy and deserving, when all my life I have langished in the suboptimal, that is all I know and familiar with. How does one ever transact in the world of the strong? How does one weild the sword of strength when all one’s life, weakness has been the learned and mirrored choice, the default, when playing weak has brought it’s own miserable but accepted benefits and handouts. The journey to finding my strength is hard and difficult, but I see no other journey that is worthy of man’s effort and input.
With strength and power, I emerge, not to trample upon men, but to fight the course of the weak, to show the way, to lead the people to the source of strength. A leader I am, To be I live for!
Beautiful Ivory 