top of page

The Broken Angel

She sits on my windowsill, reminding me of the miracles of the world;

of the light shining through each crack,

and of the hope residing in each and every soul.

And she speaks of the pain of those less fortunate, asking me not to ignore;

not to close my eyes to the lives of those who have lost their way.

Or chosen a different route.


Created from broken glass by a broken woman; a woman whose soul has been trampled upon, beaten, choked, and finally paralyzed by substances promising an existence of blessed numbness; she tells me a story of a life.

Who was that woman? What happened to her for her to seek a life in constant oblivion? When did she give up? What did she give up?


My prayers go out to her – to her renewed faith in her own soul.

I fear she cannot find the strength she needs to rise again.

I fear she will not trust herself enough to unlock the lock to her soul, to her heart.

For how can she, if her soul is stowed away in an iron box, and the key thrown away?


And yet…

And yet.


The angel stands there, reminding me of the miracles.

Reminding me that the same woman created this beautiful angel from broken pieces, seeking out and putting together the exact pieces she wanted to form this one unique form of hope.

Who am I to mistrust the infinite power of her broken soul?

Who am I to give up on her even before she herself has given up?


The ability of our infinite souls to find a way to rise has been shown time and time again.

It is an ability that we all possess, but that we seek to rediscover only at the precise moment when we are ready for it.

The beauty, the power, the radiating light within the hearts of each and every soul that has been shown to me, has left me humble and in awe of all that lies within us.


So who am I to think that this one woman, in spite of her numbed pain, will not, cannot, find her way? And who am I to say, or even imply, what route is for hers to take?


I am one.

And she is another.

Both made of the same stuff,

but with different perspectives of the truth

and of our human existence on this planet of diversities.


And so I look at the angel of hope

on my windowsill,

and I thank her.

I gather my own broken pieces together,

and I move to create my own angel of hope.


And I thank the woman for showing me her way.





5 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

Comments


bottom of page