Occasionally we let someone in, we open the folds of our insecurity and give access to the darkest parts of us. We hand over the key, and itâs terrifying. And sometimes they bump into a raw nerve, they say a callous insensitive remark, they ridicule a strange notion we have, they poke at our dreams just a bit. It hurts pretty bad and we push them out and fold up fast. We remind ourselves, âThis is why I donât let anyone in.â And we run.
Itâs right here that most people apologize like crazy. They feel terrible. They were trying to figure out how to navigate the labyrinth of your wonderful story. Itâs like holding a tiny flash light in a cave of a new world. They didnât mean to provoke those old wounds. They didnât mean to poke fun at your dreams. They considered it an honor that they held the key, even for a few frenzied moments.
Intimacy takes work, trust, wounds, hurts, sculpting in the dark: and that takes time. It takes more than a single chance. Of course we can close the doors, at any second, when we know it just wonât work. But there are many opportunities if we had trusted a little longer, reset the tempo, and spoke up louder: it wouldâve been okay. Bridges would be built. New stories are made. You find your hand closing around theirs. They begin to traverse the folds of your heart with ease, and they learn to say those things which give life, which give freedom, which grow dreams. Intimacy is formed out of stumbling, but further down the path: there is so much light, so much laughter, so many steps to the horizon together.
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