What is Coming Alive in You? Thoughts on Vulnerability, Belonging, and Cultivation
by Ashley Sposato
The Green Vineyard, Vincent Van Gogh
What is Coming Alive in You?
Thoughts on Vulnerability, Belonging, and Cultivation
“Therefore I am now going to allure her;
I will lead her into the wilderness
and speak tenderly to her.
There I will give her back her vineyards,
and will make the Valley of Achor a door of hope.
There she will respond as in the days of her youth,
as in the day she came up out of Egypt.”
Hosea 2:14-15
It’s hard to believe that just over two weeks ago, I was at a retreat in Winston-Salem surrounded by faithful creatives I had previously only known on Instagram. I feel like I’m still recovering from meeting some of my favorite people online in person.
I’ve been sharing my poetry on Instagram for almost four years. Lately, though, I have been struggling to understand my purpose in a space that sometimes feels more like a product of late-stage capitalism than an interconnected community for creatives.
As a result of this, I sometimes feel that the value social media has to offer us outweighs the negatives. At times, it seems like the only recourse must be to do away with it all together and run away to the woods and live that self-sustaining, cottagecore dream that is so often espoused in the reels I incessantly like (and save… for future use, you know?)
That being said, after stumbling across The Way Back to Ourselves, a multi-faceted collective founded by Kimberly Phinney, I’ve come to reevaluate my own thinking.
I’m a big believer that God must either be in everything–or in nothing. The ways of this world will often lead us to believe the latter. So, I must believe that Divine presence can be found in all things, at all times, and in all places–Instagram notwithstanding. Julian of Norwich puts it best: “The fullness of joy is to behold God in everything.”
I don’t quite remember how I came across Kimberly’s Instagram, but her work entered my life at just the right time. So, basically, when I was completely falling apart. I was so happy to find someone who wrote and lived in the tension of the already and the not yet–who spoke honestly of desperation and pain and did not shy away from lament.
But also, it was comforting to find someone who so audaciously looked toward hope, even when all felt forsaken. Her work was a balm to my aching spirit. In real time, I read as her story of chronic illness, near death experiences, and mental health struggles unfolded into something miraculous.
Through Kimberly, I also happened upon several other poets whose writing and presence I cherish very dearly.
When I first heard about The Cultivate Retreat, something leapt inside my chest. The hope for real, palpable community was an intense and holy desire. And that scared me. Because with hope, comes expectation. And with expectation, longing.
I have longed for so much in my life. So much has felt impossibly out of reach. And I think, most of all, I have longed for what is lost to be returned.
Transmuted.
Transcended.
I felt as though I was being allured, like in Hosea 2:14-15. It was as if, even here, in the desert season of my life, I was being called to the vineyard. As if I was finally being given fertile land to cultivate after an arid, fallow season. I believed going to the retreat was a vital step in claiming that truth.
The Way Back to Ourselves’ mantra is simple, but profound: “You belong here.”
“But do I really?” I had asked God–almost too timid to ask even in the quiet of prayer. As if God was more Greek god than loving Creator, bent on twisting whatever words I put out into the ether.
Could there be belonging in this world for me to find yet? Could the creative, soul-nourishing communion my heart yearns for exist?
I was beside myself in prayer, hoping and lamenting. Asking God to make a way for me to attend, even though it seemed next to impossible. It seemed like a fool’s errand, at times. Who was I to think I deserved to go?
I am not a woman of means. Books, a well-stocked tea cupboard, an anxious housecat, a wonderful and loving husband? Check, check, check, and check. But financial security? Not a chance.
I figured that I should just accept defeat. There was no way the Lord would really have something so good for me. I resolved to swallow the sorrow. Steel myself. Pretend my longing wasn’t eating me alive.
It seemed like a futile dream to claim being a poet as my calling–even though I’d been writing since I was nine years old. Writing was as necessary to me as breathing. But how could God give me something so good like the retreat? From an early age, a sneaky untruth crept its way into my heart: everything has a price. So, there just had to be a catch.
Still, I continued to pray. Expectant. Waiting for a sign. And then–manna from heaven. Given to me by the hands and feet of Christ.
A way was made for me to attend The Cultivate Retreat where it seemed there was none. I was provided for in ways I could not anticipate. I was honored for being vulnerable and faithful…
Soft.
In need.
Though I’m a poet, I will be the first one to tell you I do not like feeling vulnerable. When I’ve been abundantly honest with someone, and I realize afterward, a feeling of shame always seems to come over me. You know those dreams where you find yourself naked in a crowded room? Yeah, that feeling.
Of course, there’s a sliver of truth to that feeling. Not the shame, so much. But the fear. This world does not often reward us for being vulnerable. But rather, it seems to do the opposite. There’s a reason why cats curve their backs and growl when they’re afraid. There’s an untruth of this world that we all learn, and usually far too soon: better to bare your teeth than your belly.
Can I be honest with you? I am wounded. So much so that some days I feel more wounded than anything else. Aching. Broken open.
The good poet Mary Oliver, patron saint of our household, says this: “I tell you this to break your heart, by which I mean only that it break open and never close again to the rest of the world.”
Kimberly shared a quote by Rumi that echoed this sentiment during her presentation: “The wound is the place where the light enters you.”
The first time I heard this phrase, I was fifteen and wading through complex trauma, searching for significance in all my pain. I received it like a sacrament. Whispered it like a prayer. That was nearly ten years ago. I’m twenty-four now.
Circles.
This refrain kept repeating all weekend long. Matthew Nash shared the art of Kintsugi. The beauty of being broken open–and held together. We learned how artfully the Divine slips into the cracks of our soul, filling them with gold. Every offering sang praise of vulnerability and affirmed that being wounded is our most beautiful gift, for it is intrinsically connected to the healing we have to offer others.
Of course. Of course. Because it is there in our fault-lines where we are most poised to receive. Being broken open is a posture of holiness.
I think of the earth before spring. How the snow, softened by light and wind, seeps into the winter-hewn soil and covers all in a quiet prayer. Spring does not begin when the flowers bloom. It begins in the waiting, with those dark and sleeping seeds. The resting vine. Shining as stars our eyes cannot yet see.
They are tended to even then. They are growing even then. How grateful we are when the flowers finally bloom. When the vine fruits. When the earth is verdant at last.
But it is the wilderness of longing that leads to the vineyard. That leads back to the Garden. Where we find all that has been lost, waiting for our return. Yet, what has been lost is not the same as it was. Eden is no longer forsaken but transformed. Heaven is everywhere we look. In everyone we see. An ecstatic vision of color beyond our wildest dreams.
Beyond what we could envision for ourselves.
Part of me feels like I am not out of the desert yet.
My heart still languishes over hopes deferred.
My grief, more burdensome than I can handle most days.
But something is happening.
Something I can only call a beckoning. A wooing.
Matthew Nash asked a question during a morning devotional in the Reynolda gardens that has reverberated through my being ever since.
What is coming alive in you?
Oh, what isn’t?
Originally published on Substack: Idyll & Wild
GET INVOLVED with The Way Back to Ourselves and GROW as a writer and creative:
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ASHLEY SPOSATO
Ashley Sposato, also known on Instagram as Idyllwild Poetry, is a poet, visual artist, and youth ministry director based out of coastal North Carolina. In her free time, she can be found sipping tea, reading Mary Oliver, and hiking with her husband. Her work, “Hymn of the Hills,” will be published in the forthcoming North Berkshire Landscapes, a Celebration by Tupelo Press. She is also releasing a self-published book of poetry Hymns for the Garden in early summer. Find her on Instagram @idyllwildpoetry.