Why are you not yelling from mountaintops who you are?

When you send your light out into the world, you can feel yourself being refueled with all that golden light. Or purple. Or whatever color you imagine the light to be, because light isn’t a color. It’s what’s inside you. It's what you're made of, even the times when you felt that you had no light inside of you, that all you had inside of you was pain and heartache.

Get up there on that mountain. Yell into the wind what you're willing to send into the world. Send it to anyone who will listen, anyone who needs to be inspired by someone like you. You, who’s willing to get up there on a mountaintop.

I offer you my light.

I send it to you and hope that you can feel it on your back, or maybe on your head. 

It’s right there with you as you read this, as you're making eggs for your kids, as you're sitting by your father’s bedside and reading him stories, as you turn off the lamp by your bedside and roll into an emptiness where a body used to be. All of it. 

Take it. It will never extinguish.

I didn’t trust there was any light inside of me for a long time. I will not share my words with the world because there’s nothing worth sharing, I'd think, as I combed the streets of NYC like some kind of starving warrior. Light was something woo-woo that yoga teachers and the like spoke of. I had no idea of any such light.

Back then, a darkness akin to dying lived inside of me. 

I couldn’t imagine my darkness ever brightening, so I succumbed to it like a slave, heckled by my own sludge and stories.

The chains I dragged around were heavy, but I managed them, because to let go would've meant that I had to face the fact that there was indeed a light inside of me, that underneath everything was a small but steady light. I carried around the chains for years and kept myself all to myself. 

You can have none of me because there is none of me worth having. 

When I lived in New York, I used to watch the firemen’s feet when they talked and I ignored their voices. The feet give it all away. Nervous and fidgety. Pressing the earth for ideas as if language could split the pavement.

What I found out was: language can crack the earth. It can split the pavement. It has! It has opened up and swallowed me. I can’t stop writing now for the life of me. For better or worse, it has cracked my darkness, and I can’t stop sending my light out into the world with a clear knowing that whoever receives it will be just the right person in need.

What I am telling you is that if you climb that mountain, which I am hoping you'll choose to do, your light will spread across a page of the night, and no matter how many firemen put down their basketballs to come and put it out, your light can never be extinguished.

It was always there. You may have just been tied to a ladder. You may have been inhaling smoke. You may have been starving yourself or drinking too much or failing out of school. Whatever it is, or was, the light is there inside of you, and it is your birthright to send it out. You absolutely cannot hoard it.

Writing might not be your thing. I don’t know what your thing is. It might be that you are a great mother. An incredible friend. An artist. You cook a mean chili. You are kind.

Whatever it is, you have to let us know. We are here waiting with the rest of the trees.

You have to unshackle yourself from the chains because, quite truthfully, you put them there. You have the key. You have to climb the mountain and throw the key from the top as you yell, HERE I AM. THIS IS WHERE I STAND. 

Sit down on the top up there. After all, you climbed all the way up. You did that. Not me. Not your past. It was a steep climb, and you almost fell, but you didn’t. 

You have always been there.

You have always been the light.

**

I'd love to hear below if you are willing to send your light out into the world. As always, I support you in being your most authentic and brightest self xo jen


Photo Credit: Shutterstock.com


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