How big shall we be today?
How much of the world shall we allow within our consciousness? Which parts shall we push out, deny? Like Peter denied Jesus three times, which parts of our being shall we whisper, “not us, not us, definitely not us…”
Like Judas, whom shall we betray? Which shy or fearful inner being shall we murder, rape, pillage? From which part of self shall we turn away in shame, weeping, begging, “Get thee behind me!”
How big shall we be today? How encompassing, allowing? How much love can we muster for the guilty, the broken, the shattered jar? How much allowing for the inner thief without allowing her to steal all our precious riches? How much compassion for our Hitler without burning him in the oven of our pain? How much, how much?
Which parts of ourselves shall we cut away, razor blade by razor blade, to show the world an acceptable face, a perfect mask, a song without wailing and gnashing of teeth, an eye which does not weep?
The coins of our rejections lie dusty in an alabaster jar in the farthest reach of our cellars. Mice and squirrels scamper within, scattering dung. Tears of a thousand mothers dampen our treasure.
“My child, my child,” the mothers weep, “Why won’t you love her? Why won’t you love him? Why don’t you see the worthiness? Why don’t you see how this one–this precious one–carries the forgotten key to remember who you are, who you are, who you really are?”
How big shall we be today? What bruised forgotten self shall we hang from the cross? Dare we move the boulder away from the grave of skeletal renunciations?
What beyond the rejected and approved selves will embrace it all, embrace it all, the Easter of our resurrection?