It came on like an albatross. All Rime of the Ancient Mariner like.
Hanging heavy around my neck and pulling me down, down, down. Deep into the places I never wanted to go. Holding me further underneath the surface of what I feel like I can handle. It was a slow kind of sinking. The type that creeps up month after month. An inch at a time dragging me out to sea.
And we’ve all been there – or still are. Waking up from a dream to find that we are drifting somewhere in the deep. Unsure which way to the shore. Oh God, don’t let me die out here. Not like this. Not me and this curse that seems to hang around my neck. Don’t let the bird win.
Ahh, that bird. The anxiety, the worry, the insecurity, the broken-down relationships, all the reasons we have been told that we can not or should not. Fear masquerading as wisdom. All the excuses told in place of following destiny. Alfred Hitchcock was right. The birds are after us.
Today is my birthday. And I have decided I’m not inviting the albatross to the party.
In fact, I have hired my friends as bouncers to make sure he doesn’t try and come. Emailed some of them a few days ago and said, “Look. I’m not bringing this into 33 with me. “. I am breaking up with a bird. Never thought I’d utter those words, but I’m throwing the deuce and saying peace out. I hope I never see you again. In fact, I hope you rot in hell where you belong.
It’s a messy breakup if you can’t tell.
I’ve never been the best swimmer, but you better believe I am getting out of this ocean that seems to swallow me when I come up for air. This isn’t my home. I am made for extensive waters and brave things – but not like this. Not on these terms. I want to walk on the deep waters ,not be submerged in them. Jesus style.
So, me and you? We are spending this year on the shore. No more drowning.
This is my online birthday party where we celebrate a new beginning. I’m passing out glitter and war paint. ‘Cause we are those kind of people.
The kind of people who with unsteady hands paint those bright streaks across our forehead. Beams of color covering our chapped cheeks. Reminding ourselves that we are the brave kind of tribe. Those meant to carry dreams not birds. We are the wild ones who will interrupt shadows with neon lights.
You who may be sitting there. Feeling like you are sinking alone with a weight around your neck. Get your war paint and confetti. It’s time to walk into the sun.
Heading back to our homeland. To the One who puts our feel on solid ground. The One who is a rock for us in the midst of our deepest waters. Trading in our shaky sea-legs for feet that dance to the rhythm of hope.
Impossible things are ahead for us. In the best kind of way.
So, take my advice friend. Break up with the bird. Paint your face and head into the blinding sun. It’s the only place we belong.
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