Maybe this is more entirely what it means to sacrifice yourself for yourself?
I speak of death often, perhaps I am making up for all the years filled with half-truths. Life, life, life was pounded into me, always in full exclusion to its sister, its lifeline, its soul – death.
This year has been one of sacrificing myself for myself.
I’ve sacrificed, surrendered, laid-down, and grieved most of what I thought was me, all in a murky and somewhat crazy-making belief that somehow I was doing this for myself. I have clung to the belief that all of my steps to now, and all of my dying:living to and through this year can. be. trusted.
I have risked everything this year believing that life can be trusted because death can be trusted.
So much of living can happen in shadow, in dark. I am often without words, without assurance, without affirming crowds. I am often with silence, with pain, with deep stirrings and deeper anguish.
In silence and uncertainty, with busy hands and tired feet I’ve continued to hear a message rising from the ground, inviting me to bow into, to live and die into the eternal now:
A life well-lived might not be documented well or understood clearly.
I have dug my grave this past year. I have lost myself and sacrificed myself, for myself. There is little to show, except for everything, because I am a hollowed container with the Universe flowing through.