It is often the birds who sing me back to God.
I move like I have lost her and it hurts the kind of hurt in which I start weaving tales.
The stories tell me to run for the fear pulsing through my veins is like smoky fire that gets caught between my ears.
The anguish my heart beats tells me not to stir at all. Attempts to blink or wiggle fingers can’t seem to thaw what is now frozen.
I was just dancing not long before and had the ability to hold my breath under water.
Only to be in a seemingly here and now moment in which I have forgotten how to remember.
Catching divinity in the profile of my beautiful blond boy, the soft touch of my beloved’s hands, the tomato plants pushing towards the sun, and the grapefruits falling ripe from the tree.
These glimpses are an offering to bring me back to a kinder place.
These exchanges of sacred noticing and the gentle space held by the love of a human suggest I let go more.
Will I not break if I go deeper into the longing that precedes this one life?
Can I drown in the sorrow that can pillage days, even whole cycles of the moon?
Will I be reborn? Each breath has taught me this and still I misplace my attention and so easily become a wayward child.
This one Self will have to drink more of the elixir and revive her sight. Each sip can return any heart to Source, that brings the majesty of light, is a friend to the dark, and sings quietly until I can hear again.