My Inner Circle

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Meera Graham Photography
Let's dare to do this sh*t our own way.

words & images

My blog features beautiful humans of every shape, size, race, gender-presentation, sexuality...and more. This is the place where I get to celebrate them and tell their stories.

Real Stuff.

See the world through my eyes, and the eyes of my people.

Old wounds in a fresh grief


My grief has emerged in many ways over the past two weeks. Spitting rage. Infinite sadness. Numbness. Laughter. Wonder. Insomnia. Exhaustion. Grief has thrown me to the ground like a rag doll, spun me like a top, and left me with a sense of disorientation even when I seem ok.

But the thing I never expected is the way that grief has reached down and scooped directly from my other open heart-wounds. Wounds from childhood. Wounds from early womanhood. Wounds more recent. Self-inflicted, externally inflicted. Every wound I've buried, ignored, failed to notice, failed to all rising to meet the light, rising to meet ME.

In therapy this week, all I could ask was "How do I make space?? How can I hold all my wounds, gently, softly, lovingly, when all My Brain wants to do is beat them back down and stop the pain?"

I find that in this one great wound of searing grief, which is too great to force down or 'fix' or even keep at bay...that, for perhaps the first time, I'm forced to let my injury live at the surface, where there is pain, but also light. And so it is that all my other wounds are lifting their tendrils and coming up, up, up, unfurling through that open space, into the light they've desperately needed for so long.

And I'm here, trying to learn how to hold all of it without closing my hands. The Universe is forcing me to learn how to unfold into pain, into fear, into anger, into willingness. I find myself reluctant, and also newly aware that I have no choice but to surrender. And it hurts. It all still hurts; wisdom doesn't change the nature of pain, only our willingness to surrender to it.

I love you all. May we each find the courage to hold our wounds - great and small, one by one - to the light with tender and open palms.