Your shit is too poetic, he said, and I get what he was trying to say.
My creative history was tainted with force and superannuated imagery.
Every script I endeavored for film, every essay penned, every charcoal swipe across a pad; all rocketed skyward but left the sacredness I was seeking in vertigo. I tried too hard to open heaven and blew the gates off their hinges. Quite the entrance to an empty room.
I held no reverence for our skin and the palette of divinity in every tone. I could not see that the very mess of humanity was itself sacred and whole, though the pieces were around me. I thought God was outside of brokenness, not inside it. A healer rather than a participant. Not afflicted like us.
And now on most days, I look up to feel small and placed well. I touch sacred ground and breathe sacred air and kiss sacred faces. I hold the divine and walk with any breeze, alone or together with one who is here. I look up again.
The wonder of the stars was always in how we held them, and that they simply were.