Please Just Tell Me It's All Going To Be Okay

My pleading meditation in the face of uncertainty.

Please just tell me it's all going to be okay.

A deep desire that seems to be lodged somewhere hidden in the bones, in the stories, in the ache that has tenderly burrowed itself inside my body. An ache for longing, an ache that desperately wants to be known and not known, seen but not seen, held but not touched.

What does one do with such a confusing and complicated ache? I feel like if I move too quickly towards it, it's only going to burrow itself even deeper, for I am learning that it is good at hiding, at blending in, at morphing. If I go too slow, then it feels like I might never reach it. That the journey will be too long to bear, and the question, Do I even have it in me, becomes alive in me. 

Do I even have it in me? 

A question that has accompanied me throughout various stages of my life. This question—of course—becomes louder when uncertainty appears. When the path I have been walking down unknowingly widens, when possibilities present themselves, when the inevitable change occurs.

Please just tell me that it's going to be okay. A sentence that I often convey without speaking. A sentence that is so easily discerned in the expansion of my eyes, the shake of my voice, the ambivalence in my spine. When begging the question, the ground becomes unstable; being able to see how to move toward what is the best next step becomes blurry, and for a moment, I feel stuck. Stuck in the murky, stuck in the 'I don't knows,' stuck in the fears and worries that if I am not able to see how things will turn out, then that means everything might not. What a tricking thought. What a trap. A trap that tells me I don't have it in me.

I don't have it in me, is the thought I try on for a little while. So, I search elsewhere. I look to the tall trees and the newly opened-up blue sky. I look to the tulips popping up all over the neighborhood, and if anything knows where to cure the ache, I tell myself they must. The search doesn't stop there. I continue to look through my stack of poetry books that have never made it to my bookshelf, scanning each line with determined eyes. I grab my oracle cards—looking for wisdom in the images, in the offerings. I look, I keep looking. I look to my old journals for evidence that I have, in fact, been here before and that I have gotten through it. I look everywhere outside of me for a while. Until I realize I want to be looking in.

Please tell me it is all going to be okay, I plea, as I reach to my partner for reassurance, for relief. He gives it to me, for he knows generally what to say. I feel not alone, yet the ache still beats—and beats—and beats.

I don’t have it in me, a thought I refuse to listen to while I am sitting close to my son. For he must always think I have it in me. For I will always tell him that it is going to be okay. How easily the rendered voice comes through for him. How easily I can muster up the knowing, the wisdom, the guidance. How easily I can say, it’s all going to be okay even when the ache is present.

Please tell me it is all going to be okay. 

I reach to the fear, to the unsteady ground, to the too much happening all at once. I reach to the apprehension that comes from the wild unknown. A place I have been taught to fear—a place I am trying to teach myself to trust. Yet, the wild unknown still has a way of shaking my core, and maybe it always will. Maybe the shake and the ache are part of just the process of the unfolding to what is happening. Maybe the shake and the ache are just part of the transformation that is brewing. Maybe the shake and the ache just need to be seen as an invitation to dance. Without having to know the steps, without having to question if I am doing this right, if it is the right choice, the right path. Maybe instead, my body just needs to learn how to flow and move through the murky. Maybe I will get stuck, maybe I will lose my way, maybe things might all fall apart.

But, I will be okay.

I will be okay.

I will be okay.

I will be okay.

And maybe it will be more than okay. Maybe it will be wildly magnificent. Maybe it will be vastly beautiful. Maybe it will expand me beyond what I think is possible.

There has been a lot brewing for me over the last few weeks (as you can probably tell). And it has completely taken me away from the ground underneath. Even though I have continued to tell myself that I have all the tools and ways to find my way back, I am still completely awed by how hard it actually can be when it feels like there is too much to hold.

The phrase I have been returning to seems simple. It seems like, 'Well yeah, that makes sense.' It seems too simple, yet it has been bringing me the most comfort in facing the wild unknown.

Just put one foot in front of the other.

One foot in front of the other.

Dare I say, it seems to be working. It seems to be getting me through this liminal moment in time. Dare I say, it feels relieving. It tells me that I don’t have to have it all figured out, that in fact, I just have to make sure that I fully come along.

Just put one foot in front of the other.

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I would love to have you join, Mother and The Mic:

I am hosting a virtual event honoring Mother’s Day called Mother and The Mic. It has been something that I have been dreaming up for years. Here is a little blurb and some information about this dream.

When I think of one of my favorite things in the world - a thing that nourishes my heart and spirit and makes me feel more connected to others - I think of storytelling. I think of all the times in which I have witnessed others share their wisdom and the ways that their wisdom leaves me forever changed. I think of all the times I've heard someone else speak their truth and how deeply moved I've been, feeling tenderly touched by the remembrance that I am not alone and that we, in fact, need to hear that.

I have been dreaming up a space where we can come together to share our stories, our words, our poems, our journal entries, or wisdom from others that have touched us. I have been dreaming up Mother and the Mic.

This is a space where we will celebrate the essence of mother. All of your words are welcome. You do not have to be a mother to join, for we are all touched by mother. Whether you want to share about motherhood, about your ancestral lineage, your own mother, or the great mother, you are welcome and very much needed for this co-creation.

Click Here is the link to learn more or sign up to join.

Or you can visit https://leeshamony.com/mother-and-the-mic