As I closed the door to the basement, the room went from scantily lit – to pitch black. I felt around with my hands and melted into the chair that I brought with me.
I closed my eyes tightly, inhaling through my nose and exhaling through my mouth. Taking shallow breaths, until all I was cognizant of was my breathing.
I rehashed it all.
My various incarnations from:
Childhood, adolescence, teenage, young adult.
It sped past like a blur, the memories seemingly pushing me back into my seat.
The burdens of my shortcomings, procrastination and missteps had lead me to this juncture.
And I began to speak.
Praying slowly and deliberately.
No tears fell, there were no pangs of disaffection, but I sat there and prayed earnestly.
Asking for one thing I’ve asked for time and again throughout my life.
For my family to be proud of me.
For the gift that I’ve been told that I possess – to be a light for others languishing in a darkness not of their choosing.
I asked, fervently.
To be better, than my shortcomings, doubts, excuses and to be guided by purpose.
I asked that this body that I inhabit, to be steered by something greater than me.
To be possessed with purpose was a huge ask, but I needed to make it known.
I hung my head as I concluded my prayer, extending supplication back to whom it came from.
The burdens began to melt away as I began to feel an ethereal inclination that worrying was beneath me.
Remembering the sage words of my Aunt Irene telling me, just a few short weeks ago.
Not to worry about anything, but to give it to God – and know that all will be made right.
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