Strange clay

I have not been myself recently.
Unfortunately, I do not know who I am instead,
But I do not welcome the change.

I am battle weary from resisting temptations,
From attempting a dignity of spirit,
Despite thoughts of which I am ashamed.

I am lonely, from want of intimacy.
Even the intimacy of my own self esteem has gone.
My spirit has dispersed in the wind like my confidence.

There have been times when I am an outsider to myself
Watching what I think and do with a curious detachment,
One step removed from living.

And oh, how I have hungered after You,
Needing to find your realities outside myself
Yet finding it so hard to give you time and space.

And, strangely, needing to find you in the mess
Of introspection and temptation.
Needing to be as free from striving
as I desire to be free from weakness.

So here I am again, shuffling words,
Until they form the shapes of thoughts and feelings.

I have been outside in the dark when the sun died.
I have ridden the wind of a late summer night
And found songs rising from hidden places
Yet still laboured under the melancholies of darkness.

I have listened to the music of those who sing to You with ease,
And remembered that the value is in giving freely,
Not loudly, not confidently,
nor even faithfully at times.

So this is my giving. With gladness and gratefulness
I freely give you emptiness, detachment and temptation’s fire.
It is a strange clay, but you are a strange and skilled potter.

And still I trust.

(c) A McN