And then I shrouded myself in certainty, content with absolute Truth, comforted that I finally knew and understood, and more than willing to put away whatever didn't conform. The Truth contained within it intimacy and ecstasy and I knew I needed nothing beyond that.
But more and more as time wore on, the shroud that had been a comfort, felt like a death wrap, like protection between the world and me, but also like the clothing of death. And in a way it was. The clothing of spiritual death, of dying alive.
These days, I don't want death, not even symbolic death. I want life. Not safe. Not secure. Not shrouded. Not certain. Not easy. Not detached. Not always perfect. Just life.