The Weight of Life: Holding Space

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I keep a tattered slip of paper in my wallet. It has the names of all the people whose opinions matter in my life etched  in my own handwriting. The list is short.  I’m old school. I know. I borrowed the idea from Brene Brown, she makes me feel safe. I like to take the softy worn declaration out and unfold and re-fold it when I’m anxious. The weight of it in my hand represents life, something I know for sure–right this minute.

I’ve been learning about how much holding a whole life in one’s own hands costs.  There is nothing particularly strong or brave about me most days. I get tired quickly. I get tangled up in my own head with no warning at all. I write about things I have yet to learn. Things that hook my breath up– a reminder of what it feels like to be alive.

Some days I only think about how I hope things work out–really work out. Hope felt like an early victim. I place my bets and heart on faith, a tap out, a holy piggy back of sorts. Faith might prove to be too much for sissies like me.

Despite what I used to believe, naming the darkness changes nothing. It must be caressed and kept company. It needs a close listen for that low consistent rumbling of  dark corners. The crevices that hold a lesson unlearned.  I need to be more grateful.

Please, just let me sit here where everything is acceptable, protecting all my excuses. I like it better when explanations and lists are not needed.


I know love.

We have the same needs–we need nothing.

I have seen you battling on your knees, trudging through the sea of judgement by the faceless faces.

There is good reason to be anxious when life is a knotted mess.

I try to mind my own business but some days open like tornadoes.

 Or maybe I’ve been confessing the wrong sins.

 I know it’s time for something.

I am alive.  I am sovereign.

 I am here to rule. No apology.

 Rebellion is necessary.

 I want to live where grit gets injected into souls.

I have no time for abstract ghosts of spirits scared shitless.

 Show me your depth.

We are much needed light and immeasurable darkness.

Not all beautiful things are real.

Not all real things are beautiful.

Life isn’t always pretty.

Pretty isn’t always safe–or helpful.

Some things need to be left broken.




Leave a Comment

  • Psychic Nest March 31, 2016, 1:02 pm

    Hi Dana,

    I totally love your writing and the poem is so beautiful too. Keep inspiring , keep shining!



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