Sometimes the distinction is hard to make.
All I know is that you are the skeleton in the valley of dry bones, stripped skin bare and naked to the bone. The flesh of your desire has been stripped by the vultures.
You are the dream that never got to live.
You spent too many moments lying motionless when your body ached to run. You passed too many years putting up with things you should have put out. You spent too long frozen behind pleasantries with a fierce hunger brewing in your belly.
Now here you stand raging at the wind with these dry bones turning to dust in the center of your spirit womb, air lifted fleck by fleck into the high places you never would have gone. Finally freed from the gravity of these desert circumstances your remains have learned to fly.
Such a bitter irony!
Calm yourself woman! Come to silence. Gather yourself in.
This is not the end it appears to be, the end your rage is calling it to be. Quit this morbid fantasy of hope gone on to better days.
Stop staring endlessly into your yesterday flashing dead things against the canopy of the sky. And if you are going to stomp your soul feat like that, do it with purpose. Tamp down the lawless fire that is working overtime to chew through your tomorrow.
Then be still, not to ward off danger, not to comply, but to gather up, to pull through courage from the heart of earth.
You are not dead! You are not even mostly dead!
You are missing, absent from your life conversation.
You need voice lessons, not so you can make the shrill sounds of impotence and certainly not so you can channel voices from on high.
You need speech training so you can prophecy to these dry bones in your middle.
You will be born again, but not by the seeming power of your anger, not by your downtrodden glance, not by your steadfast faith that you will die alone in this desert.
You will be reborn by your WORD.
Open your mouth and tell these bones to live again. Call them up out of this lie of dust unto dust. Reclaim these disintegrating bones, snatch every speck of skeleton powder from the wind with your command.
"Live! Wake up dry bones of my abandoned faith. Move remnants of me! Dance to the sound of my spirit voice. Come alive and give me shelter."
Sketch the flesh over these bones with your eyes. Tell the soft, earthen vessel of your tomorrow to take shape. Call in the blood flow of your happy ending to revive, revive, revive.
Your life will bear fruit. Your riches will flow like milk and honey, not from the bosom of the mother, but from the fertile work of your hands.
This milk is in you. It is yours to deliver. Pearly white with a dash of honey-kissed sunshine, it will overflow as a rainbow in the night. A miracle of light!
This sweet milk must return to you as blossoms springing to life, as riches harvested from the land.
You have glory in your fingertips, passion in your womb, fire in your flesh.
Call up the fertility. Speak blessings over everything you touch. Plant word seeds deep in the heart of THIS land. Pour out the water of your voice. Drench this barren space with the full power of every star in the milky way.
This land is your land. Its harvest is your harvest. Call the earth to bloom.
Plant your feet firmly right NOW.
No more running, no more raging at the villainous air.
Bury your faith in the sand! Watch it turn rich, dark, fertile, yielding beneath the sweat falling from your brow. No more thistles and thorns!
There's a garden hidden in this wild unruly land.
Its name is Delight.
Your name is Delight.
Touched by What You Read?
Support The Resurrection Diaries via Patreon.