I created this blog to discover(through reflection an sharing) and reclaim all of parts of myself which had been erased– or failed to develop as a result of learned distorted ideas about myself, love, connection, and God. I think frequently of grace and mercy, practices first introduced to me in recovery. How did I go for so long without knowing or being these ways? Tragically, that is exactly how.
I have a tattoo of the word mercy mixed in my slowly evolving sleeve. Mercy: compassion or forgiveness shown toward someone whom it is within one’s power to punish or harm. I feel as though Mercy may be universally defined…so tattooing something so precious and clear felt easy. I get a fuckton of practice with an excess of opportunities to be merciful. I have contemplated the word grace for a tattoo, also. But I struggle with that one, as I do not feel that there is a universally shared definition and sadly I still sometimes give a teeeny tiny fuck about being misunderstood, by even those intent on misunderstanding me.
So, the kind of grace I have learned in recovery, is what naturally flows from behaving/ living with gratitude (the act—differing from gladness & appreciation), humility, courage, surrender. So…But for the grace of god, go I. -Grace resulting from teeth gnashing acceptance and difficult compromise- because it is wholesome to do so and also feels nearly impossible. That is THE grace, I want tatooed on my body. The grace of choosing mercy and compromise over rage, righteousness, and self service. Who would’ve thought a wretch like me might come to know grace? Amazing, I know!
I have descended from those who likely think Grace to be about poise, posture, manners, table settings. I fail in all of the ways to exhibit or care about that kind of grace. My idea of Grace: quietly offering some of your sandwich, maybe even to someone you don’t super like when it would be easy to eat it all and pretend as if you dont know they would appreciate it—My kind of grace(the kind I want tattooed on my body) is not a meal served up fancy and often with an expectation for praise and recognition. What impresses and inspires me cannot be purchased, crafted, curated, forced or feigned.
As a result of learning to practice gratitude (acts of gratitude—-paying blessings forward), humility, courage, surrender– my life is more beautiful and blessed than I could have imagined, or made with out spritual recovery. It is full with people and things which I love—but do not fully enjoy–cuz depression and trauma. But blessed beyond measure. I will keep doing the work. Forever. But why can recovery not be an event, rather than a process and daily practice foreeevvvver?
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