I dig the word mercy. Perhaps because I was disconnected from it for so much of my life.
Sometimes when things are going haywire in the old head, I take a big breath in, and on the exhale I say — “I am mercy.” Because I want to be mercy incarnate.
Mercy: an act of kindness, compassion, or favour — so says one of many definitions.
Mercy to me is release. It’s when you stop trying so hard to win the fight, or look the toughest, or be the best.
When you give in to what you are feeling and just feel it — even if it feels shitty.
Or when you give in to peace rather than going all-out gangbusters on some thought train that’s counterproductive and exhausting and annoying to think or speak of.
Mercy is like, “ugh, this way of thinking makes my skin crawl” so you choose to be compassionate and loving instead of fearful and aggressive.
Mercy is when you breathe through the rage, and plaster a smile on your face and say, “I fucking got this.” And then you walk away in your mind, with the swagger of a 90s supermodel in a George Michael music video because you are that solid on the fact that this love over hate thing is THE WAY to freedom.
Because mercy is freedom — that’s why I’m drawn to mercy.