Turning To My Child
Burning the one stick of incense brought home from India, sitting upon my cushion for the first time in weeks.
Awake while my house sleeps, discovering another nook where I may return to awe.
There is love in this new home.
The walls, the textiles, and the plentiful kisses of the sun can nourish the tender-spirited.
Here, now, I can be held as fears transform to knowings of humanity, and fortitude.
A cultivation of resources so that one day the breaking of my heart will not seem so unjust.
Rather it will simply be a splintering no different than the leaves dying off in their season, and the cactus flowers in theirs.
A process must happen before there is flowering again.
An ego mistakes the affairs of rebirth as devastation rather than necessities.
A nervous system caught in a loop of endurance can make the world so small.
When the lens can include the vast sky and the subtleties of gentle wind there is an invitation.
Beauty in what is right now may be what preludes the continuance of vitality.
There has been tremendous effort to breathe in and to breathe out.
With the additive of opening my eyes, I wake from a trance.