Art Lovers Insights:
My heart is Yours completely…how do I my give my heart when it is sunk under rocks. Rocks of accusation, words of abuse, words that broke down, words that were not said and should have been.
Our heart is so fragile, we shape our responses around the things that happened to us.
We start wearing masks.
I become what I think others expect of me. If I have been hurt, I become strong. I build a wall, a fortress of spikes to protect my torn heart. I become efficient, good at anticipating circumstances.
I might become very successful.
But my heart is getting buried under a bigger and bigger pile of rocks. My wings are trapped and tied with anger. My fortress gets so efficient that I cannot stand to be intimate with my wife/husband, my children, my family. I constantly need to be in control and therefore push everyone away that want to come close. I’m so afraid of getting hurt that I cannot stand being known for who I really am. I am an eagle meant to soar, but I feed off the ground like a chicken.
How do I free my heart, how do I soar, how do I fly and become what I am hiding inside?
I choose to forgive…
Forgiveness is not pardoning, condoning, excusing an offence or forgetting about it. It is also not the same as reconciliation although that can occur as part of the forgiveness process.
Forgiveness is my choice that sets me free from my chains.
The chains that anchors me to my rocks of memory. I choose to let go.
Forgiveness is the stuff of everyday heroes, the ultimate measure of internal peace.
To err is human, to forgive divine. – Alexander Pope
If hope gives you wings, forgiveness will get me off the ground.
You love with no reservations You’re not looking for perfection And there’s no need in me pretending.
Little Girl with a Brave Heart “I always say that I grew up as an orphan in a family of orphans,” Leonie starts, as we take our seats in her studio, an oblong-shaped hall that forms part of the 1st Durbanville Scout Hall. Every inch of it is splattered with paint, some accidental spills from the strokes of a paintbrush, others purely intentional by the artist herself, on canvas and in an array of colour and emotion. Her two beautiful Swiss Shepherds find comfort by her feet and I sip the coffee she’s made me from a metal, paint-stained cup. “My dad, he didn’t really have parents really, he discovered his mother dead on the ground when he was 10 and was sent off to his grandmother, so he grew up without a father.