Bare

The problem with being bare, is of course, that bare skin, bare wounds, bare feet leave us incredibly vulnerable to danger of every sort: frost bite, paper cuts, glass shards.

A few weeks ago, I wrote a post about why I don’t identify as a Feminist which left me incredibly bare.  And even though I wasn’t in the line of fire per se, I felt danger on every side.  It felt scarier than the wounds left from exposed feet & freezing cold hands because my vulnerability came deathly close to my self worth.  When I said those things, who saw me?  Who saw straight into my ugly soul?  Did I give away too much?  Did I become too bare?  Too exposed?  Have I ruined my life? Should I hide in a hole?  Just those small things tugged at my heart strings.

Later, I wrote a follow-up post to express this bare-ness somehow, to attempt to explain the barrenness of my heart and the fears that were choking up my days, mucking up my schedule, putting some shake in these feeble fingers.

I forgot something though.  I forgot that only when we are bare, can we feel, really feel the true pleasures of touch: a super soft blanket, the embrace of your lover, the skin-to-skin goodness of a silky baby cheek.  When I opened myself up again, it was only in that 2nd round of bare vulnerability that I was able to be soothed so thoroughly through the kind, vulnerable bare words of others.

Being bare is one of those things in life that confounds me.  I want to hide, always want to hide myself, but when I don’t, I experience the most pleasure just past the most pain.

How often do you take risks in baring your soul?  Is it easier for you to do when it’s for others?  Any great soul-baring stories?


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