There is a pair of lines from Ada Limón’s beautiful poem “Banished Wonders” that I can’t stop thinking about:
Mistral writes: I killed a woman in me: one I did not love. But I do not want to kill
that longing woman in me. I love her and I want her to go on longing
From “Banished Wonders” by Ada Limón, from The Hurting Kind.
Ever since I read this, I have been turning it over in my mind, wondering what it looks like to love the longing woman in me. It is so much easier to ignore her or squeeze her out. We find it so much safer not to want at all. But what does it look like to love our longings, even when they go unmet? What if we too, can learn to love them, or at least look on them with the kind of care and compassion that Limón demonstrates?
I think one of the things that I find so difficult about longing is its inherently unfinished nature. Acknowledging longing means acknowledging something waiting to be fulfilled, and that can be a vulnerable posture to hold. As we wait, our longings themselves can begin to seem like a barrier to the things we long for. They can begin to feel like the problem.
But our longings can be such instructive friends if we allow them to be. They can teach us what we really believe about God and the world— our deepest hopes, our most unnerving fears. Our longings teach us how to name what we love and prioritize it. They can be a tool of wise discernment, a vehicle for self-understanding, and a locus for empathy.
I see in Jesus a man who is deeply gifted at seeing the deepest longings of those he meets. He sees them, and he calls them out in people. He names them. He is curious. I love that Jesus did not come to banish our longings, but to acknowledge them, speak to them, and draw our attention to them. He often speaks directly to the true longing at the heart of the person he is with, whether or not they are able to recognize and name that longing in themselves. And not always lovely, wholesome longings either.
There is something to be learning from all of our longing, including our messy desires— for vengeance, rescue, vindication, safety, fulfillment, companionship, nurture. They draw us into touch with the full spectrum of human need and emotion. And that’s what longing does for us, really. It teaches us to be vulnerably human. Humans are longing creatures, and when we try to kill or suppress the longing inside of us, we divorce ourselves from our own humanity, the full vibrancy of who we are created to be.
Our longing selves are not neat. But they can be glorious and reflect the image of the divine. They can be so revealing when we allow ourselves to own the strength of our own desires, when we admit how badly we want the things we are longing for, how much our hearts are in it. And when we do this without regard for when and if those longings are met, there is a certain boldness, a willingness to be fully and vulnerably ourselves that can spring forth. There is a lot of wisdom to be learned in making companions of our longing selves. The relationship is not always an easy one, but there is much to be learned when we are able to bravely name and recognize our longings and encourage them to go on longing. What if we can learn to turn towards our own longings with openness and curiosity like Jesus does? What if we can sit with them as if with a friend? Perhaps in doing so, we might just open ourselves to being seen and recognized in those longing spaces. Perhaps we can learn to love ourselves a little more and learn little more about the direction our hearts are leaning.
Wellspring 