Poetry: Held
A lovers’ embrace. Gentle yet fierce. Protective. Welcoming.
Arms encircling, drawing me in. Allowing whatever I need, to come forth. Deep sobs of grief, waves of fear, tickles of laughter, outpouring of joy. Space for whatever needs to come forth.
I am Held.
And in the holding I am cherished, adored, delighted in.
No matter what state I am in.
Full of anger, or indignation, confusion, or unbelief, peace, or joy, or love.
The arms are open wide, waiting for all that I am to enter the circle of the Lovers embrace. I am home, this other home of intimate love-making.
My lover says to me, “How beautiful you are, my darling! Oh, how beautiful! Your eyes are like doves.”
I, the beloved, say to my lover, “How handsome you are my lover! Oh, how charming! And our bed is verdant.”
My lover says to me “Like a lily among thorns is my darling among the maidens.” My lover Is mine and I am his; he browses among the lilies.”
My lover spoke and said to me “Arise my darling, my beautiful one and come with me...Arise, come, my darling, my beautiful one and come with me.”
Holding out his hand he bids me come.
Entering into this life, following his lead.
Held firm with His hand in mine and mine in His.
A safe anchor in times of trouble and in times of success. To know it ALL comes from being held by Them.
Have I always known this Lovers embrace, of being held firmly by the hand? No, I have not.
I have resisted.
Twisting and turning, seeking embrace in others’ arms, in my own independence.
I had learnt that intimacy was not to be trusted. It could be a place of deep pain and betrayal. Vulnerability and fragility not held well.
In fact, they could be dropped and shattered.
They know this about me, and They woo me, like the best of lovers, to move toward deep intimacy with Them.
One step at a time.
No rush.
No hurry.
They take each fragment. Gently.
Reverently.
Weeping with me over the shattering.
They gaze lovingly at each shard, place it on the divine workbench. Moving the pieces together.
Fixing them with gold.
A more beautiful mending than Kintsugi.
My memory holds moments of wooing. Moments of golden mending.
One dark winters night I feed my firstborn, I lift her to my shoulder. She nestles there contentedly. Warm, fragile, vulnerable.
Her face turned towards mine, a small smile upon her lips.
So small, so beautiful, so much a part of me and yet separate.
He whispers to me “This is how I hold you.”
My heart swells and tears fall.
Oh, the intimacy, the care, the protection, the fullness of this love for me. And I love in return.
I am his and he is mine and his banner over me is love.
~
Shannon Mawdsley lives communally at Peacemakers Retreat Centre where she is also able to give her time to Servants to Asia’s Urban Poor as a spiritual director, mentor, and workshop facilitator.