Sunday, April 13, 2014

No less than everything.

Tonight, the sky sits silenced and suspended between calm and rage before the storm, awaiting the chance to release the pressure in order to change it's shape and form.

You sit and gaze at the face of a gently falling dusk, drenched in the sounds of fleeting birds and the last of the closing doors of those retreating into homes as we circle 'round the same old sun, as hot as the fire in your core, ready to rise into being by following the call that pulls you toward what you must finally become. Embody yourself. You are fully supported by no less than everything. And everything is waiting for you.

When you believe in time.

If I had two weeks, I'd take you to places that make the soul a little less thirsty- places that'll hold us in their hills as the sun blankets the land with hopeful orange light. We'd soften gently with dusk, knowing that time will take care of us, because when you believe in time, then time will believe in you and I.

Worlds within worlds.

I wanted to ask you about your vision of perfection in an imperfect world, or what side of the earth calls out to you when you touch a physical globe, or maybe about your greatest heartache and how you still go on as your world continues turning, or what you do with a memory once lodged inside your bones that's still breathing, and burning.

But you're still a stranger, and I'm overly polite, so I'll ask all about your day when I'd rather know about your life.

Spring always comes again.

And then April swept in with its breezes and rain, readying the lands for spring with scattered bursts of sudden color, rising from the dull ground while announcing their desire to breathe life again. I don't know anything about certainty or being sure or steadiness in this unforgiving world. But I do know about seasons, especially spring. Spring always comes again.

Still always together.

You made yourself from the earth, the meadows, the ground below us, holding this planet steady. I made myself from the lightning and rain, hovering above your quiet grounds until I'm called, when your solid lands are thirsty, and ready. Meanwhile, the earth spins on. Meanwhile, the wind grows strength in shedding truths and whispers of silent knowing. Just as soil feeds the world, and water feeds the soil, we were not made to exist in this world without another's voice on the line, or strong hand in the dark. We are here to support one another, by growing separately, yet still always together. To light each other's spark.