Willingness lives somewhere at the edge of the Wilderness, where she wandered to find the light hidden between the limbs (her own? the trees?), bare feet and branches snapping as she cut her way through to the center of it. Terrified, she did it anyway. Like many women, she owned a pair of boots but she hadn't thought to put them on as she was woken from her dream, called out the door, still half asleep, and walking toward what she couldn't name. God's voice touching in the trees like a mother calming her child, shhhh...shhhhh. Trust this.
She was not negotiating the days of her life in order to find out more about her life, nor was she truly interested in knowing more about herself through the "work" of self-examination. The difference would be this: The seed can not be saved if she digs down into the earth with shaking hands to pull it up, examine it, name its parts while at the same time tearing it lose from the dirt that holds the fragile tail of a shoot inside its mouth, warm and dark and necessary. Speechless. A seed pulled this way can't be put back into the earth and expected to recover, to grow. The vulnerability of such a creature (a life, a person, a child) must not be compromised by our desire to possess it or give it a name smaller than the one it was given in the Beginning.
Instead, she will leave the seed of herself alone, allow herself to show herself in her own time and in the fruit she produces, what she is, what she dreams possible for herself, what she fears, how she moves, how she is called beyond her fear of the dark wilderness of her past, sustaining herself on the desires of her heart written there for her by God, for what she can know of light and air and love because it is being given to her. She lifts to receive these blessings. Let her lift to receive these blessings.
Sometimes I am this brave. Sometimes I am not. And this is to be expected.