Tethered

We were walking from the train to meet family in an Afghan restaurant treasure, where we always laugh into its quiet over spiced pumpkin.
But first, a moment with this parking lot.
A moment with the tattered.
A moment with the central story of my life.
When I was going through one of my most difficult times emotionally, I was greeted by this lyric from Sleeping At Last’s song, Turning Page: “We are tethered to the story we must tell.”
I may not have known my story would be about the tattered when I arrived here. That it’d be about loving the broken, the torn, the signage on its way out, the leaf as it curls.
But I’ve found my story rests on the line of hello and goodbye, for better or worse, and although it is a bittersweet place to live, it is mostly sweet.
The late bloomer that I am, I’m finally now able to lay bricks of trust on that line. And build a house inside me.
For it turns out the foundation I was always seeking… was born of my continuous practice of loving away the madness of broken things.
And I give thanks, for today I feel sufficiently glued together. Like one of the porcelain dolls I dusted and kissed the foreheads of in my childhood room in private.
I must have known then that I’d have a lot of tattered to love my way through, before getting to such whole form.
I may not be any pristine doll now, but inside me it matters not if that doll ideal breaks.
And therein lies my safety.
For I’m building my house on the line of hello and goodbye.
I’m learning to smile into them both.
And to smile even harder, when someone like you, rings my bell to say hi.
So, what story are you tethered to?
What word is the main word of your heart?
I’d like to know.
