nowhere we fully belong. That place of in-between can feel like the place of greatest
stress. Paradoxically—and therefore unsurprisingly—the greatest healing of my life has
come when I recognize that these crevices of life are not places to fear, but rather spaces
we must enter in willingness and joy.
The Irish poet John O’Donohue thought that thresholds are “a place where you move
into more critical and challenging and worthy fullness … a line which separates two
territories of spirit … How we cross is the key thing. If we cross worthily, what we do is
we heal the patterns of repetition that were in us that had us caught somewhere. Then
we cross on to new ground where we just don’t repeat what we’ve been through in the
last place we were.”
In reality, crossing thresholds is actually all we are ever doing. We cross and repeat,
cross and repeat. The challenge is to learn to see each threshold as another opportunity
to leave behind the life-limiting narratives that no longer serve us, and so, eventually, to
enter the territory of Spirit as our truest selves.
This is not always easy. With each threshold into a new territory of Spirit, we bring
with us our false selves even as we seek to reunite with what is true.
In order to grow in grace, we must learn to resist the urge either to dump our past
by the side of the road or to cling to long-tattered ideas we have outgrown. No more
throwing the baby out with the bathwater or hoarding our stories long past their expiry
dates. We must both release what no longer serves us and keep what we still need to
grow in grace.
Our false selves would have us believe that we live in an either/or, us/them world in
which we are continually urged to choose sides. Real life itself is far more fluid than this
dualistic thinking would have us believe it to be. Only by learning to live in the space of
both/and can we wildflower.
My whole life has been a wildflowering, both loving and fearing my fertile and
fallow liminal spaces—seeding, growing, withering, blooming, scattering. Over and
over again. In rainy times, watered by joy and creativity, hope and harmony, I have
flourished alongside my fellow wildflowers as we arrayed ourselves in cheerful beauty,
scattering our prolific joy to the winds and taking seed wherever we landed.
Of course periods of drought were inevitable when, scraggly and alone, I barely poked
my head above the arid soil before withering away with the hope of trying again next
season. And I would be less than honest if I didn’t admit to the times when I desperately
wished to be someone’s cultivated fragrant flouncing rose, or their precious hothouse
orchid solicitously tended and pruned, oohed and aahed over, pampered.
Still, I have always been a wildflower.
There are those who feel that wildflowers are weeds. Others call them volunteers,
springing up in any opportune soil. Some might say they are botanical survivors, while
many view them as floral carpetbaggers. I’ve thought of myself as all of them—these
treasures that nevertheless persist and prevail no matter the disturbance or the damage.
Only by wildflowering in the disturbed soil of my life have I finally been able to show up
in the world as my truest self.
Adapted from The Way of Being Lost
by Victoria Price. Copyright © 2018
by Victoria Price. Reprinted by
permission of Ixia Press.