The Cloak

I have this new theory.

Deep down we all want the same thing- to be accepted, to have value, to be loved in the truest sense of the word.

But we are told all our lives that we are not worthy of love, that at least some part of us is not worthy. So we hide. We hide behind power and anger and violence and arrogance.

Some of us wear the suit of expectation without ever taking it off. It stifles us, strangles us, causing a slow and agonizing death until we are put in the ground, buried in our suit.

Others of us learn that the suit can be taken off. And to the society’s dismay, walk around naked, no shirt, no shoes, no service. Society be damned, we would rather starve to death than eat at your table.

But I see a new tribe arising. And their numbers are growing. This group of people removed their suits long ago and in its place have donned a cloak of authenticity. Somewhere along the way they learned that they are in fact loved, that their soul and Love itself have tangoed since the dawn of time and that nothing they do can ever interrupt that dance. So they live in freedom. They live unabashed, unashamed to be wholly themselves and to allow the goodness that spills out of that freedom to drench everyone they touch. The flame within them burns like wildfire and nothing, no amount of loss, no amount of hurt, not even death itself can extinguish it. Their souls shine like a beacon of hope to all who pass within view.

So here is my new theory- there is abundant goodness within us all. We were born with it. Some of us have it buried right below the surface, others will have to do some serious excavating to find it. But it is there and it is waiting to be unleashed. And the only way for it to spill out in its entirety, the only way to get every last drop, the only way to break the dam and let the mighty river flow is to don the cloak.

It can take just one person waving their flag to give us permission to do the same.

I am still wearing my suit. But I have undone my tie and taken off my jacket. I see a cloak hanging in the closet. I walk towards it, hand outstretched. Am I ready?


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