Lord, wash me not of my imperfections, but of the ways I try to hide them.

Four-days-unwashed hair.

Running late, always running, always late.

Hoping no one finds out how infrequently I launder the bedsheets.

I never before thought of blessing these things. Now I see them in need of blessing, of integration.

The voices of emotion.

The voice of smallness.

The voice of vulnerability.

The voice of longing.

Christine Valters Paintner writes, “Sometimes we need to welcome our ‘small selves’—the poor, meek, humble parts of ourselves—to allow our big radiant selves to be in service to them … Perhaps there is something even more profound than all of the amazing things we are doing in the world. It is this simple unadorned self that is blessed. The smaller selves are blessed.” (The Artist’s Rule, pg. 87)

The wisdom of these smaller selves is the wisdom of being human, of being malleable, of being unpolished and beautiful.

I want to make peace with my shadow side, my imperfections. I feel in conflict with myself, like half of me is inside a fortress, and half of me is huddled against the outside walls—like all of me is afraid.

Interior freedom feels like being present with myself, like saying “not today” to crappy thoughts. It feels literally spacious, permission to take up more room with my body and breath. Is there room to make mistakes? I feel small when I think about making mistakes.

In Celtic spirituality, “thin places” refers to locations or times where the veil between the physical and spiritual realms seems thin, where a closer connection to the divine arrives, perhaps unexpected. It is possible that no one else wants my small self, but God does. He meets me in the moments when I am aware of a limitation, a failing, a smallness. Maybe these moments are another “thin place.”

I notice that my sense of self is rigid, even brittle. Can I reimagine myself? Fleshy, muscular, vulnerable, more cottage than castle, more field than fortress.

I am meadow. No meadow has walls. No meadow tries to look the same every day. A meadow doesn’t look at its thin patches with embarrassment.

My whole heart longs for grace and mercy. I want to mete out mercy, because it is the right thing to do. But I’m not sure mercy can be “meted.” It is given out not so much in measure as in waves. It is oceanic, much bigger than I realize.

I am meadow, and in meadows deer graze, butterflies drink, shy rabbits and tiny mice feel at home. “Welcome home to myself,” I say.

My big self sets the table for my small self, and together we dine in the meadow.