Gathering Bones

I’ve been clinching my fists.

I noticed it first while on a coaching call. We were talking about how people often give away what they love most — what they’re most excited about — by how they speak about them.

I was talking about story coaching.

“You know, it’s interesting,” my client told me. “When you were just talking I saw what you meant by excitement. Your face changed.”

I laughed.

“No, really,” she said. “Your entire demeanor just lit up.”

It wasn’t until later, when we were done with the call, that I noticed the indentations in my hands — tiny half moons from where my nails dug into the skin.

Huh, I thought.

I clench my fists when the Truth feels too precarious inside my veins. Boiling over, I reach for something — anything — to distract my body from the heat within; almost as if by pressing my nails into the soft skin of my hands, I can poke holes and the steam would provide release.

.::.

There is a truth I’ve been running from over the course of the last six months. It is housed in a larger Truth, inconvenient in its persistence. The truth?

I am afraid I have missed out on my purpose.

This is why the background of my iPhone reminds me that I have no missed out on what is meant for me.

Because the larger Truth, inconvenient as it is, whispers as a response that I am what is holding me back.

.::.

When I came up with the name for Awake the Bones, a lot of it was because of Ezekiel prophesying over the dry bones in the desert, breathing life into them and watching literal bones turn into literal humans before his very eyes.

But then I heard of La Loba — the wild woman of the desert who collects bones and when she is finished, places them by her fire and sings over them.

She sings so deeply the desert floor shakes and the bones begin to wake.

When I heard this story, I knew — more than I’ve ever known anything: I was La Loba, calling out to the rio abajo rio, waiting for these dry bones before me to take shape and breathe again.

.::.

I’ve been clenching my fists.

And when I find myself pressing into the folds of skin, I pause. I close my eyes. I inhale. And then I imagine all of the bones waiting to be found. I gather them close and sing a song.

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