Mending The Body Of Being

Outside culture, beneath belief, away from habit, beyond all that marks us as remarkably different or strikingly similar, we are simple humans who arrived here naked.  We will leave here without the body we were born into.

We are phosphorescent.  We are humming with being.

You can be standing in the dazzle of sun and snow at the same time.  You can be standing in the umbra of a tropical downpour, looking through a rainbow under the sun.  Either way, silence looks after itself.  Noise gathers itself up. Neither one answers to us.  May we just rest here.

All is just as it is, here in this life, this suture holding birth and death close, pulling the two garden gates toward each other, drawing the two sides of the hurt in tight together among the stitches.

Here in this world, ever wounded, ever mended.

 

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