I have sharp edges, shortcomings, past shames. I am deeply flawed, entirely imperfect. I am terribly prideful, sometimes too quick to speak.
My roots and branches are stretching, reaching for nutrients, for light, for fresh soil. The old things pass away, falling leaves as autumn drifts on. I grow and learn. I am not stagnant.
Give me honesty, yes, tempered by kindness, patience, grace, as much as is possible, but let the ground between us be free of eggshells. Don’t tread lightly. Trust me to take care of myself.
Let us bare our wounds matter-of-factly, admit our resentments, and confront our hurts readily, to diminish the risk of poisonous festering or amputation later.
May we be the sky to each other, allowing room for endless possibilities. May we be morning glories, unruly, bold in our growth, and the trellis underneath the climbing rose, supporting, bearing weight, offering direction and shape.
I am being pruned and parts of me thrown into the fire. I stubbornly cling to pieces of me that are long dead or severely stunted or no longer producing flower nor fruit. Do not take your axe to me, friend; Pruning shears will do just fine.
And as new branches grow, as old branches wither, as new rings layer around the core, as roots dig deep and deeper, as we flourish and falter in our own unique seasons, may we grant each other room to grow and to die.