Bees in My Bonnet

  I am a person in process – never quite done I suppose We find our start in life with a Mother. I have a Mother, who had a Mother.  I am a Mother Imperfectly Mothered, I Mother. Yet mostly I don’t know what it is I’m doing or how to keep doing it. But there is no out – No quitting! No vacation! – This permanent job. Yet because of my own Mother-wound Deep, still unhealed – I undertake a journey; A walk through the interior and find a need, a lack, a soul-longing. What is this yearning – how does it shape me in this moment? It tells me I have unfinished business Never complete this side of the mansion in the sky. It tells me this hunger in my soul – both gift and burden – A yoke easy pressing about me – weight assures me weariness is real. I do not imagine the load.   And a voice whispering Divine Love assures me: “The hungry are fed and never sent away empty.” I welcome, with joy, this news. My heart overflows with hope: “Oh please, dear Love, never send me away at all! Your presence

                                        I haven't ceased to write.  No. I have merely withdrawn to cultivate the land of words that lies buried deep beneath the life I've lived. The temptation is to compare - my life isn't yours. Others have greater gifts. Order. Organization. Discipline. My weakness is that of fear of trying. Fear of trying and failing. Maybe just failing altogether. And yet, if 'facing our fears' is the kind of advice given for such dreads as failure, it seems I should come out ahead. There's this thing called 'impostor syndrome.' With me, perhaps I'd like to drop the second word of that phrase, and merely stick with 'impostor' because the 'syndrome' part seems to indicate it is merely an experience, rather than a reality. Please...don't. Don't jump in here with explanations of how I am all that great (because it is my God that is great). And the sense of being an impostor - of being seen as That Which I Am