Letter to Rage
I have been so afraid of you, thinking I needed a way to let you softly seep out. What I really need is to let you in, you fierce beauty. You have come to rescue me, to deliver me, to tell me the secrets I already know, to fill me with wisdom and the genius to escape. How can I ever get past the dragons without your ferocity?
I’ve spent all this time rejecting you as foreign and out-of-control, scanning the skies for something more familiar and tame. But angels are fearsome creatures, and you are mine. I’ve tried to shut you out, but you are in my marrow–dormant once but now gurgling awake, ripping through my innards until I hear you and acknowledge your sacred truth. You are the fighter and we were meant to be one.
I thought you crazy, and you were the sanest of us all. I thought you spun things wild, but you were straight-talk and simplicity. I thought you ugly and unbecoming, but you were a savior, heaven-sent, to think I shunned you!
You are bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh; you tell me who I am.
I thought you might be violent (if I let you loose), but you are the heartbeat of justice, mama bear, gushing burst of compassion. I thought you might be vengeful, but you wish no ill. In this world slated in gray, you are the one eye that can still see black where there is black, despite this mind of mine, trained to spot nuances of moral shades.
To my surprise, you are relief. Clarity. Ferocious expression of kindness. Necessary. Oxygen. The most difficult kind of love.
You are welcome in my house. In my being. You are me.