an open letter to my pain

dear pain,

Hi. I can see you. You can come out from behind my bedroom door. I’ve been able to see your shadow for quite some time. I’ve been feeling your scared hands reach out to try and strangle me, and I’ve been running in terror--I thought you wanted to kill me. But I know now you only wanted a simple touch.

So here I am. You can touch me with your hands if you really want, I know you won’t suffocate me. I know you’ll be gentle, and I know I’m safe here in my home. You can come out. I’m here to listen to you for as long as you’d like to stay and I’m not scared. I’m okay with you. And I’m okay with being a little tender every morning, every afternoon, every night. I often find things when I feel tender. Being tender is like walking along a steep, rocky lakeshore. I have to proceed gingerly to avoid the places that the soles of my feet won't fit into, and I have to be intentional and slow with every step. But gradually I’m getting somewhere, and finding so many things along the way. Different pieces of bait. An old ball cap. Green glass shards. Pretty stones.

I’ve been anxiously walking this shore for what feels like a long time, picking up trinkets here and there. One time I even stepped on a bumblebee. But the sting has worn off now and I’m starting to walk more confidently. Many times I carry the things I find until I run across somewhere new to leave them. Sometimes I skip the stones out into the lake. Sometimes they skip one, two, three times.

What do you think of that, sorrow? I know you’ve been following me. Sometimes you’ve been leading me, and I’ve been so worried that you’d never go away. But I realized recently that I never really got to know you in the first place. So lately I’ve been watching you with more open, observant eyes, and I’ve noticed that you’re scared too.

I want to show you something. Come here, hurt. Step out from behind the doorway. Yes, you can take my hand. I want to show you my kombucha brewery. I’ve been making my own. I’ve been steeping tea bags in cups and mugs and jars all over my apartment. I’ve been cutting up ginger and lemons and strawberries to flavor it all. And I’ve been canning it and letting it sit and grow until it’s right to open. Kindness. Hope. Positivity. Love. Authenticity. Honesty. Respect. These are the things I’ve been brewing.

What do you think, suffering? What do you think of the choices I’ve been making? The lemons and limes I’ve been slicing open? I know, I know, they sting the fingers I have cuts on. But I thought you might want to see. This is what you’re teaching me.

I know you’re surprised, fear, but I started this for you! That’s why I asked you to come out. I’ve been noticing how many good things I’d started to grow when I stopped running away from you-- when my mornings became less scared and sad, and more tender. More grace-filled. Because believe me, not all the tea gets bottled. Sometimes I drop a jar or two. One time I poured scalding water all over my hands. Some days I get zest deep under my fingernails and it stings like crazy. But it’s always worth the effort. And every day I get better, more talented.

Yes, love is patience and kindness and all the ingredients I’ve been preparing. But love also believes all things, bears all things, hopes all things, and endures all things. To be hurt is to have sensitive feet on the lakeshore, but to believe all things is to see the beauty in each little hook and rock and shell that you find when you walk. To bear all things is to love even with the bee sting firmly planted in the underside of your foot. To hope all things is to begin to feel the wind and the sun on your shoulders and forget how difficult the walk is. And to endure all things is to know that no matter what anyone says or thinks about how you are walking, you will learn to love them and to trust the road in front of you.

I’m sorry, pain, I’ve been editorializing. I tend to do that. The point is that I am realizing you only wanted to be a part of me. And I’ll give you a home, for now. A loving, grace filled home. A home that seeks the best for others--by both caring deeply and knowing when to let go. This is what it means to have love and pain, both full jars and empty ones. Sometimes you brew the perfect batch, and sometimes you spill it all over the floor, and then step on the broken glass, too.

But I’m not scared of you anymore. You can come and sit with me, brokenness, for as long as it takes. And I’ll be a generous, thankful host. Look at how much you’ve done for me! Soon we’ll remember all the wonderful things we did together, and I’ll say, it’s sad to see you go, but I know we’re both off to better things.

And you’ll nod, your handbag full of all the silly polaroids you took with me and my friends along the way, like the time my laugh couldn’t help but break out from behind my tears. You’ll smile that crooked smile, stitch up my suitcase and cross the threshold. We’ll wave goodbye, saying I’ll see you soon, I’m sure!

after all, there’s always more to learn.

love, greta