For I Awoke

 I awoke this morning to Me.

First a cloaked Me.
Meticulously crafted.
Stitched together by the expressions of time and perception
and branded with holes, long burned through, of curiosity and wonder.
Each worn patch, smoothed with a thousand smiles clad in silver.

This cloak, devised by experience, once heavy with expectations,
is but a house to shelter the treasures that await within.

This Me, knows how to alchemize joy from tragedy.
This Me, knows the silver lining.
Shadows are friends that need a hand,
and perceptions are but a wave willing to bend and change.

This Me, carries a facade.
Strong, grounded.
Hems of patience grow.
Deeply embroidered are the flowers of morality and responsibility.
Interwoven throughout, are the swords placed down from battles long past.
Though they may be dulled by the softening of time,
 always they are posed at the ready.

For this is a warrior's cloak.
Not tattered and abused.
No.
Nurtured and cared for by the host it wraps.
The Protector of it's faithful wearer, it forges on.

Each button, a trophy.
Sewn by respect, for each was presented within a box of darkness.
Each was polished to a shine, and yet....
a simple clad of fabric hides their significance.

This Me, this Cloak fuses with its host.
The glow of joy peeks out every tethered stitch,
like a beacon to pry inside.
It's the vulnerability that it hides.
Conditioning this Cloak like well worn leather.
Sturdy and pliable.

The boxes that lay inside?
Their gifts placed out in perfectly familiar wrappings.
They continue to work through like moths to a flame.
They dim, but for a moment when opened.
Each presenting a sword of fire, then ice.
Each melted into love then laid down to the field of embroidery.

This Cloak presented as Me is fading.
Hem lines falter to stay together, while the thread stretches thin.
The pattern, procured as needed,
has been forged by distant memories of lessons relearned.
Tangible and logical.

The Me in waiting holds secrets.
Within the joyous flurry awaits a box not so wonderfully wrapped.
Dark and worn the lock hangs open.
Obvious it has been gently pried open before.

This box, unlike the others, contains no perceivable memory or path.
Reeking of vulnerability and fear,
this Cloak of a Me wants to keep it buried.
This Cloak begs to remain the ultimate shield,
but the Me it hides, has no desire for it.

There it waits.
Placed outside and left ajar, this box, unassuming in nature, awaits to be examined.
If there was memory of this gift, it was lost long ago.
Another journey, placed directionless, promises possibility.

This Cloak knows courage,
for it can intuitively guide through lessons of remembering and foreseeing.
This medal, however, requires surrendering to the unknown.
What should this look like?
Where is the first step?
How will this feel?

And there it lays.

This Cloaked Me knows the medals of tragedy.
Knows the rewards of battles fought with determination, love, joy.
Responsibility and compassion, anger and frustration.
Resilience and poise, logic and heart.
Most of these won with a reliance of self that has chosen to battle demons in silence.
To heartbreak and mend in the shadows.
Stand and lick wounds quietly.
Self reliance is a well worn path.
The light shines when the battle is done.

This Me, it would seem, is unsure how to receive.
This Me knows to need and self fulfill,
but to want and receive is of another language.
How does one lean on a tree that is faltering?
How does one receive help from those whose hands are full?
When you don't need saving,
how do you want it from a world that is blinded for it.

What is this partnership of roads that run in all directions?

So, I awoke this morning to a Me.
Half cloaked and vulnerable to rawness.
Naked to the knowing that receivership is tied to giving.

Malnourished, I awoke this morning to Me.
Me, who watered and tended the grounds for the fruit, yet is unsure of how to harvest.
The Me who has led others in to pick from the garden.
Children careless of their footing, drunk with the loving support they ingest.
Children lost in their own beautiful world, have no awareness of the caretaker.
The Me.
The Me who will remain to rebuild what they have discarded.

I awoke to the Me,
standing at the edge of the garden,
an old worn box for a basket and a familiar Cloak over its shoulder.

A Me unable to find the gate.