Easy Does It

Why do you have to try so hard to make sense of the part of you that glows?  Quit trying to find cryptic meanings and just glow because you were made to.  Switch off the machine of your curiosity, your gears are grinding and they need to cool down.

Never mind the unknown ages of starfish and disperse your intricate web of energy.  Glow, and be willing to believe in yourself. 

Funny how we all live so close together we’re practically stitched, but fake separation.  Your country has its wonders, glorious, its atrocities, shameful.    

Maybe you’re a great white shark – you didn’t intend any of this.  How others perceive you does not define who you are.  Maybe you’re a hammerhead, a mermaid, I don’t know.  Maybe you fan the water like a whale’s fluke, sway like seagrass, eat from the smooth prism of an abalone shell.

Maybe you’re a pollinator: without you all life would vanish, humanity owes itself to you.  But the burden doesn’t matter, the concept isn’t even within your field of awareness.

You just rise every morning and do what you were made to do: your work.  What, you may ask yourself, is my work?  Don’t let anyone else answer that question for you.

 

Reception

Friends, I toss myself aside for you.  I become available for you.  I eat, drink, mumble, run hands through hair for you, scramble down the gulch for you, carry wood, fold socks, scrub pots, ever-fearless, requiring nothing.

These are not the days of time’s inhalation pulling way up under the world’s collarbones, stitching together the fibers of dream and memory.  These are days of emptying the mind, distilling the essence.

Friends, what does it matter if the world hears your voice?  We all belong to each other. Your voice is here, mine is here: as wild, small, and equal in worth as any other.

The voice is in your heart and so the world’s heart knows it, as surely as you know the heart of the world and hear its voice also, as surely as there is perfect stillness in the eye of the storm.

We listen for the voice with all the power of our deepest listening,  as if our line is cast before the coming of a great fish, a sudden tug is felt through our hands, and our withered husks give rise to some new possibility, somewhere between dusk and our return journey.