The Fire That Seeks the Light
A word for the Enneagram Ones
who carry the flame of what should be
I’m the voice that dares to say:
“It doesn’t have to be this way.”
They call me One
The Reformer
The Strict Perfectionist
I was born,
with a compass in my chest,
and a courtroom in my head.
Justice is the ache,
not letting me sleep.
Not to judge, or control, or keep.
But beauty is waiting to rise,
If we dare to repair what’s broken, what lies.
As a child,
being golden earned love.
Not loud.
Not wild.
Not messy.
But sharp-edged and precise.
My inner critic, the voice of truth.
Not realising it’s a guard dog,
not God.
I may mistake guilt for growth
shame for structure,
And punishment for justice
Straightening my spine
I silence the scream
wanting to spill out
when things go wrong
You’ll see composure,
While fire boils inside
fearing what I might do
if I let myself come undone.
Anger tarnishes perfection,
after all golden children don’t rage.
Rightness,
without mercy and grace,
is my cage
a tightrope for you, and for me.
Pedestals keep me up,
and you down.
The world is flawed
it’s on me to improve it.
I must be the One who stays clean
while others make a mess
I am the exemplar, no-matter-what.
I’ll hold the line,
I’ll do what’s expected.
Colouring inside every border
while others break the rules
and get praised
My resentment grows
I can’t not see what’s incorrect,
Or out of place.
The missed detail,
the crooked picture frame.
I see it and deeply feel it.
It hums in my bones
like brittle tension wire
about to break
I’ll leak or unleash around
unfairness,
incompetence,
Imperfection,
a lack of integrity.
But worst of all,
when I’m misunderstood.
Stretching to 4,
I learn to feel without filtering.
I show some cracks,
and sit in sorrow,
without solving it.
Embracing imperfections
as part of the whole song
Releasing to 7,
I laugh and play,
And become “good enough”.
Letting go of the control
remembering that joy
is not a reward,
it’s a right.
The divine teaches me,
That love doesn't always look like the law.
It’s right-relatedness.
Grace is not weakness,
it's a revolution,
An invitation to exhale and be flawed.
The divine doesn’t expect perfection,
but longs for all parts of me
Perfection is whole
not flawless,
True,
not tidy.
Holy,
Not because of me.
“Education is freedom...
when it names the world,
and then transforms it.”
So I stop naming only what is broken
and I start naming beauty too” (Paulo Freire)
I soften.
For my judgment is really longing.
I let go,
and begin to forgive myself.
I drag the critic,
before divine compassion,
and see myself with delight
just as the divine sees me.
I am learning to be right
and kind.
Strong
and soft.
Clear
and compassionate.
I am One.
Not just a reformer,
but a restorer.
Not just a judge,
but a gardener of grace.
I am the fire that seeks the light
but now I know:
The light seeps through the cracks.
And makes me whole,
Perfect in weakness.
