To be vulnerable is to open myself up to my own humanity, the power of the cosmos and the perfect imperfections of folks I encounter both daily and once in a life time. This inspires fear, lessons of comportment, erratic behavior, hypersensitivity to performances of self and other’s interpretations of that self. I’m not sure how much of that is healthy but the process, the process of being open, is necessary. With each anxiety filled moment I become more at home with inability to everything to everyone or anyone. With each pang of uncertainty I implored to recognize the awesomeness of the cosmos; my type A personality is called to rest and I arise fully filled and a bit more vested in this life I have been given to live. To live. To fully live. To wholly live. That is much deeper than survival. This is much more intentional than hand to mouth work ethics. This is more secure than gaining economic largess. This living shit, it feels and fills the soul. It produces a reservoir of love powerful enough to fuel the most battle-worn of hearts through droughts of affection, through spells of failure, through plagues of internal rejection. Living–the decision to be present, to hear, to feel, to emote…without pretense…is a task I wrestle with everyday.
Many people fear vulnerability because they fear rejection. That is valid. Rejection is unpleasant. It stings. It bruises. It can scar. However, my fight with vulnerability is not about rejection but instead about access, paralysis and destitution. My question becomes, who should have access to my self? Why? How much? How often? How deep? Where does consent end and violation begin? What happens when my self is poured out on the kitchen floor like a spilt bottle of merlot aged and bottled for greatness, because s/he/you didn’t know my value and was offended by character? Am I simply to crash into the hardwood floors and sink back into the depths of the earth from where I had once grown? Should I relish the rhythm, timbre and art of the fall? Or should the bottle remain sealed until a spirit known, new and true arrives?What would be left of my tightly crafted blend of fruits? What would I have endured the heavy rains and scorching suns for? Where would my value reside? An aged wine can become old and sour…better to be free and dispersed than bottled and reminiscent of a bloodied vinegar. Is the bottle a protective house or a fancy glass prison?