Water

A sip, just enough to wet the tongue, barely enough to swallow. Not too cold, not too hot. Right here, right now, I experience the simple joy in a sip of water.

An image, like water, absorbs into my whole body.

Kneeling in the garden, Mom gently taps the soil around a freshly-planted tomato seedling. In a few months, it will spill through the wire cage surrounding and supporting its plump, juicy, heirloom fruit. She takes another, placing it in its own hole three feet away. Hard to believe these tiny plants will soon need that much room to flourish.

Room to flourish, surrounded and supported. Sometimes it’s so hard to give ourselves room to flourish, to take up space, to see our right to live.

I circle around her, clutching my news close to my heart. Looking up, her squinting eyes are blinded by the noon sun. I move in closer to block it, but it’s too high. Kneeling, our eyes meet. She smiles, then sees it.

“It’s here? Oh, Ang, it’s here!”

My heart explodes. Grinning from ear to ear, I release my grip, rotate it face up and present it as a gift. Above all else, I want her approval. Are you proud? Is it good? Do you like it?

She slips off her gloves, claps her hands together and rubs any extra dirt onto her thighs.

“It’s beautiful.”

Her hands sandwich my book, oh so gently, like a prayer. She brushes the cover, then traces out the title.

Like a sip of water, right here, right now, I experience this image, fully and completely. The simple purity of a mother and her child.

She opens and lingers on page after page. Hands resting, she absorbs the words through her palms. She cries. She smiles. She breathes her love in and out. Her body is gentle and present. She receives my love letter.

Every day, I carry less. It’s imperceivably subtle, if you don’t know what you’re looking at. Each day, I look a little deeper or a little longer. I see I can look at the pain. I am supported. I am loved. I am accepted. With each honest look, my nervous system gets a tiny infusion. Like a sip.

Just a sip. Barely enough to swallow and just enough to wet the tongue. But it is perfect. Not too cold, not too hot. Not too fast or slow. Not too hard or soft. Just enough to gently open to the life-giving healing power of presence.

Some days are massive leaps, pausing at the threshold in a timeless moment where God reveals His presence. Right here, right now, a wordless prayer reaches out to my ever-present God. I risk trusting Him and voice my desire.

Your voice. The world needs your unique voice.

God says, “You can trust Me with your deepest desires. I care for you.”

On these days, God-given peace and insight meet, swelling my entire body with life. Water saturates every cell, cleansing and sluffing the weight I carry.

Our Flying Lessons

Be present in your skin.
Be honest with God.
Really live, now.

My book, Flying Lessons, is available at http://www.blackrosewriting.com/non-fiction/flyinglessons and https://www.amazon.com/Flying-Lessons-Angela-Kari-Gutwein/dp/1684332249/ref=mp_s_a_1_3?keywords=flying+lessons&qid=1550670950&s=gateway&sr=8-3.

If you purchase my book prior to the publication date of March 14, 2019, you may use the promo code: PREORDER2019 to receive a 15% discount at Black Rose Writing.

Flying Lessons, at its heart, is simply my story. But more than that, it’s an intimate, first-person, present tense journey through paralyzing fear and guilt. It gently and progressively shows us how to help each other heal from the big and small traumas of our every day lives. Each lesson builds more and more depth, giving us tools to soar in the midst of our pain.

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