Too Much

It seems like each week - since maybe March 2020! - I say out loud: “It’s too much.” Like right out loud. As if someone was sitting across from me on my navy blue living room sofa. Drinking Fresca (the house drink of choice.). As if they had wandered in and sat across from me and leaned back with a small smile and said: “How the hell are you?”

The nerve.

Who of us doesn’t already know. The intense, burning, painful spot right under our skin that we worry with our finger knowing it will hurt. Deeply hurt. And yet touching it again and again, almost thankful for the pain because we know it means we are alive.

Which is fine for a week. Or two. Or a month. Or a year.

I’m bruised. I’ve worried that spot over and over again until deep purple and blue bruising has splotched my skin. But darned if I’m not going to go to bed tonight and then wake up in the morning and poke at that same bruised skin wondering if it’s healing.

Spoiler alert.

I’ve been quite sure, for a long time now, that God is energy. And I’ve hoped, for just as long, that the energy that is God we’ve named love. And that the God-love energy, when expressed in a deeply inter-connected way is what we call peace. And that this God-love of peace, when transformed and transforming is called justice.

No one is more confused than I about what all of that means together. Bruising, God and sofas. But I’m pretty sure it’s deep.

About as deep as that damn bruise.