Acceptance is the Thread



If

direction

is the

needle,

then acceptance

is the thread.

As I sow, it

occurs to me

that this

thread is is acc-

eptance. As it

flows in an

upstream direction,

I reme-

mber the

driver of the

needle is mine

mine to

appoint. The very

tip tap- ping on

the thi- mble. This

di- rection is simple

to flow in. Slamming

breaks, change brings it all

to a halt. As he

opens the car door,

stepping out, th draw

of hands is revealed.

From this position I understand

that acceptance

is the thing that

binds

me

to. the wheel.



You reap what you sow.

By threading fate, actions you carry out are tied to you

and the true, actual reality, that results as a consequence.


I describe acceptance as a threading of fate to the fabric of reality; mainly because life, lovely and limitless as she might be, only functions as we join bits and pieces together – calling it a past. To accept this as fact is no option, yet so many roll that boulder up the hill, daily. For me, it’s plain as day to see that in acceptance is the only way to live.



I can recount, in vivid detail, the various times I’ve reluctantly stepped into acceptance – breaking in the process. Of these times, the most notably painful forced me to reconsider, change, and restructure the knowing of myself.


Acceptance, Change, and Expectations


Acceptance is the final step in the progression of change. Change, to me, is a fork in the journey of life’s threading. With the opportunity to alter the wear of life on our bodies, “Change”, as described by Greek philosopher Heraclitus, “is the only constant in life.” In various respects, I’ve learned to accept the world and its happenings as they are. Though not always simple, the cross-stitch of acceptance is the very thing holding us together.


Personified by the flame of a Phoenix, change is the giver of new life, with acceptance being opportunity taken. This lesson, though a tough pill to swallow, has allowed me endless opportunities to become more the person I want to be. Time and time again I’ve learned to reinvent myself in the presence of ever-constant change. With this constant as the catalyst for growth, learning its mechanics has become a major part of my life.


As a queer immigrant child, I learned quickly to use my wit to get from my environment, the things I needed. The more I seemed to know, the less impeded and the more moved I felt to succeed. Spotting patterns in the way people move and homing in on those needs – people pleasing. Always doing as I’m told and never speaking. Through acceptance of this learning and the knowledge, regardless of the ways gained, I can stand tall in knowing that the ivory tower is not for me.


The course I had chosen left me feeling in wait for the days I was no longer reeling from the very believing that I could be limitless. Expectations on my back like euclase pillars, but I, with deep blue hues of defiance painted on the ceiling – protesting. Unwilling to accept that I had become complicit in my own exploitation. This feeling’s reminiscent of the many times I’d refused to listen to the messaging of my spirit. I let myself burn. Thinking that the fire would engulf me, giving birth to the newest, most apt, version of myself. Giving birth to the version most fit to step foot into the tower.


Blue in the face, the burn off my body fueled by blind, seething rage. No longer willing to be contained, the firebird spread its wings, releasing every semblance of chain for the cyclic surefire change of the wind’s direction.


In time I came to realize that the change here, needed, was not of myself. Having to accept me, for better or worse, regardless of the expectations was the key to a self-imposed prison.


Now, I refuse to be complicit in the face of expectation. I’ve accepted this as fact, knowing that I am meant for more. More than the scraps I’ve been thrown by monsters mending pipelines they helped to destroy; for at least I can recognize leakages in myself. The ivory tower is not for me, because as I have realized, effigies should only ever burn.



Acceptance, Loss, and Self


Grief has been described to me as “the space in the body, holding love, unable to be properly expressed or received.” The concept makes sense to me and it’s my belief that when held for too long, that love can turn into an agonizing anguish. Throughout my life I’ve heard acceptance and love used interchangeably in aims of highlighting one another’s importance, but I do not believe the two are inherently the same. To accept a person as they are, in some instances, can be a very loving action; however, the underlying implication of tolerance in that sentiment should not be overlooked. Anguish and tolerance are but materials comprising the fabrics acceptance binds.


In stitching acceptance to reality, too, do we connect ourselves to sowers of abundance, light, love, and everything beyond those horizonsincluding that which looms in shadow. Often, we forget that the highlight of acceptance is most notable on fabrics of darker hues. After all, bright red embroidery on a navy-blue piece is more impactful than a white button placement on a shirt of the same shade.


The acceptance of a loss, warranted, but unwanted, still shakes me from time to time. I’ve learned from this past, that the base of my person is most important in the reconstruction of myself.


Reconsidering the lesson, I lessened my appeal through concealment of weight keeping me in trenches. Doing the meticulous centering of every brick, of every layer, of every pillar holding me up – partly. It’s hard to say when illusions painted by elusive murmurs started to decay. All I know is I prayed for it to hold. Hold still. Hold me. Hold in time. And then it came down, crashing.


My foundation was not merely cracked, it was decimated. Grief and anguish crept into places where love had lived before. Veins preserved the loss of love in a seemingly hollowed structure. Rupturing, the seams holding me together were singed by campfire mutterings of all that would never get to pass. Drawn to the pit, my fire was torched, only to watch it burn the world around them. At the center of destruction, acceptance, of love unrequited.


With rubble and debris providing nutrients the soils in my garden needed, I grew. Slowly at first, with my stem unable to meet the sun’s gaze. But in due time I raised my crown to meet rays, both the ones given off by, and felt on my face. With acceptance, grace was planted.


Fruitful trees of love, unconditioned, now live within me. I’ve learned that even the darkest pits can give life to something beautiful. The planting does not have to be a funeral of self, it can be a state of hibernation where conservation of the energetic self is priority.



You reap what you sow.

By threading fate, actions you carry out are tied to you

and the true, actual reality, that results as a consequence.


I describe acceptance as a threading of fate to the fabric of reality; mainly because life, lovely and limitless as she might be, only functions as we join bits and pieces together – calling it a past. To accept this as fact is no option, yet so many roll that boulder up the hill, daily. For me, it’s plain as day to see that in acceptance is the only way to live.



About the Author


Jesus is a Las Vegas-based dancer, singer, poet, and writer whose work focuses on the queer immigrant experience. As a former recipient of the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA), Jesus touches on issues that mottle identity for those taught to hide in plain sight. Informed by the added complexities of queerness and culture, Jesus makes it a point to highlight social paradigms which suppress individuals along these intersects. By bringing light to the nuance which keeps so many feeling suffocated, Jesus' work asks necessary questions regarding solutions often overlooked by those stagnant in theory.


Jesus is set to release his first poetry collection, entitled, ‘Weird-Heavy’, in the fall of 2022. Follow him on Instagram and TikTok to stay informed.

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