You, a Leftover, 2022

A Letter to Self.

Why am I a person who does not know how to receive? Is it simply my nature, or is it that I wanted so much, yet never received the love I actually craved? Why is it that I cannot take what is given? Was there no one to give, or did I simply lack the hands to hold it?

Whose love was I so desperate for? Was it Mother? Or Father? Did I spend my entire childhood yearning for a love that pours out endlessly, without bottom? I thought that if only I could stand on my own—if I could sever these thread-like ropes tethered to my ankles—I would finally be someone responsible, someone independent, someone with an iron will.

"At least." That phrase is often a coward’s refuge.

Work in progress (You, a Leftover, 2022)

Father, then Mother, then my brother. If it had only ended there, it might have been enough. But after them, and after the next, and the next, I was abandoned over and over again. I needed a hole to breathe through.

I see a child over there, curled up and sobbing. "Why are you crying there all alone? Fine. I might as well kill you. I’ll kill you to vent this long-held resentment." In this godforsaken world, you were the only one who would take my rage. Yes, you—who is me. I wished you would just die. If you wouldn't die on your own, I would be the one to kill you. You useless bastard, capable of nothing but being cast aside. You incompetent fool, whose only skill is being forsaken. I believed that abandonment was your rightful place, that being thrown away suited you, that such was the garment you were meant to wear.

Detail image of water fall on the floor. Splashing water. Peaceful waves in the background. Growing grass on the floor.
Detail image of a withered snow summer-flake.
Detail image of piercing light.

But now, as time has passed, I see that this was not all your fault. To you, who is also me: I am sorry. Forgive me for living all these years by trampling over you every single day. You were merely a fragile child who didn't know how to ask for help, where to go, or whom to turn to. You didn't even know how to utter a single word or take a single step forward. Forgive me for killing you once more during the very hours I should have been getting to know you and facing your heart head-on. I should have told you it was not your fault. It is already far too late, but if I could meet you again, I would brush your hair and tell you that you are precious, that you are dear.

I am deeply sorry.

Work in progress (You, a Leftover, 2022)

Having lived my whole life with you, I realize I don’t even know what you like. All I can offer you is a heart pulled from my chest—wrinkled and crushed beyond the hope of being smoothed clean. I don’t know what to share with you, what you need, or what you want. Does this act of trying to give even mean anything to you, who does not know how to receive? You, who likely cannot take it; me, who wants to give it anyway. I am still wandering, hit by a lonely rain falling from above. My clothes are soaked and heavy because they won't dry. Yours, must have been heavier.

I have come a long way around, but I found one good thing along the journey. No, in truth, I didn't find it; it found me.

Look, here in my hand is a shimmering light. I pass it to you. Just as the friends of the paralytic tore through the roof to lower him down—and just as that courageous step was rewarded with total cleansing and restoration—I bring to you the light that ran toward me. Through the torn and cracked openings of your sky, I let this light descend.

Detail image of You, a Leftover, 2022

You, the forsaken one. Forgive me here, and find your rest. Let the indelible scars etched into your soul and the untouchable loneliness be healed in this place.

And then, stay with me. If we ever meet those who resemble us, let us invite them here. So that they, too, may find rest and no longer lose the life they've been given to self-hatred or resentment toward the world. Let us cast away the empty shells and move forward—naked, clean, and new.

You, a Leftover, 2022

A Letter to Self.

Why am I a person who does not know how to receive? Is it simply my nature, or is it that I wanted so much, yet never received the love I actually craved? Why is it that I cannot take what is given? Was there no one to give, or did I simply lack the hands to hold it?

Whose love was I so desperate for? Was it Mother? Or Father? Did I spend my entire childhood yearning for a love that pours out endlessly, without bottom? I thought that if only I could stand on my own—if I could sever these thread-like ropes tethered to my ankles—I would finally be someone responsible, someone independent, someone with an iron will.

"At least." That phrase is often a coward’s refuge.

Work in progress (You, a Leftover, 2022)

Father, then Mother, then my brother. If it had only ended there, it might have been enough. But after them, and after the next, and the next, I was abandoned over and over again. I needed a hole to breathe through.

I see a child over there, curled up and sobbing. "Why are you crying there all alone? Fine. I might as well kill you. I’ll kill you to vent this long-held resentment." In this godforsaken world, you were the only one who would take my rage. Yes, you—who is me. I wished you would just die. If you wouldn't die on your own, I would be the one to kill you. You useless bastard, capable of nothing but being cast aside. You incompetent fool, whose only skill is being forsaken. I believed that abandonment was your rightful place, that being thrown away suited you, that such was the garment you were meant to wear.

Work in progress (You, a Leftover, 2022)

But now, as time has passed, I see that this was not all your fault. To you, who is also me: I am sorry. Forgive me for living all these years by trampling over you every single day. You were merely a fragile child who didn't know how to ask for help, where to go, or whom to turn to. You didn't even know how to utter a single word or take a single step forward. Forgive me for killing you once more during the very hours I should have been getting to know you and facing your heart head-on. I should have told you it was not your fault. It is already far too late, but if I could meet you again, I would brush your hair and tell you that you are precious, that you are dear.

I am deeply sorry.

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Having lived my whole life with you, I realize I don’t even know what you like. All I can offer you is a heart pulled from my chest—wrinkled and crushed beyond the hope of being smoothed clean. I don’t know what to share with you, what you need, or what you want. Does this act of trying to give even mean anything to you, who does not know how to receive? You, who likely cannot take it; me, who wants to give it anyway. I am still wandering, hit by a lonely rain falling from above. My clothes are soaked and heavy because they won't dry. Yours, must have been heavier.

I have come a long way around, but I found one good thing along the journey. No, in truth, I didn't find it; it found me.

Look, here in my hand is a shimmering light. I pass it to you. Just as the friends of the paralytic tore through the roof to lower him down—and just as that courageous step was rewarded with total cleansing and restoration—I bring to you the light that ran toward me. Through the torn and cracked openings of your sky, I let this light descend.

Detail image of You, a Leftover, 2022

···

Mark 2:1-5

A few days later, when Jesus again entered Capernaum, the people heard that he had come home. They gathered in such large numbers that there was no room left, not even outside the door, and he preached the word to them. Some men came, bringing to him a paralyzed man, carried by four of them. Since they could not get him to Jesus because of the crowd, they made an opening in the roof above Jesus by digging through it and then lowered the mat the man was lying on. When Jesus saw their faith, he said to the paralyzed man, “Son, your sins are forgiven.”

···

Psalm 23

The Lord is my shepherd, I lack nothing
He makes me lie down in green pastures,
he leads me beside quiet waters,
he refreshes my soul.
He guides me along the right paths for his name’s sake.
Even though I walk through the darkest valley,
I will fear no evil, for you are with me;
your rod and your staff, they comfort me.


You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.
You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.
Surely your goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

···

You, the forsaken one. Forgive me here, and find your rest. Let the indelible scars etched into your soul and the untouchable loneliness be healed in this place.

And then, stay with me. If we ever meet those who resemble us, let us invite them here. So that they, too, may find rest and no longer lose the life they've been given to self-hatred or resentment toward the world. Let us cast away the empty shells and move forward—naked, clean, and new.

···

Mark 2:1-5

A few days later, when Jesus again entered Capernaum, the people heard that he had come home. They gathered in such large numbers that there was no room left, not even outside the door, and he preached the word to them. Some men came, bringing to him a paralyzed man, carried by four of them. Since they could not get him to Jesus because of the crowd, they made an opening in the roof above Jesus by digging through it and then lowered the mat the man was lying on. When Jesus saw their faith, he said to the paralyzed man, “Son, your sins are forgiven.”

···

Psalm 23

The Lord is my shepherd, I lack nothing
He makes me lie down in green pastures,
he leads me beside quiet waters,
he refreshes my soul.
He guides me along the right paths for his name’s sake.
Even though I walk through the darkest valley,
I will fear no evil, for you are with me;
your rod and your staff, they comfort me.


You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.
You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.
Surely your goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

···