The heart opens. It’s outpour, a war cry. A million beetles, flapping birds, dust and with it, spiders. Then drop by drop the inky purple of remorse, woe, despair. A sludgy rush of shame. Name, after name; lost, wronged, harmed. Who holds tight, lifts us up? Strain, the dissolution of old contracts, and unbearable lightness. Increasingly easier to allow; comfort follows these pains. Hardened bits grow scarce, warmed, and folded in. Only the softest light, the greatest ebb and flow of color. Ease. Grace. Anger pure, its own channel. Sadness disentangled, parallel. Fear diminishing, for there is no cause. Here, and now. Each moment. The smallest, and smaller yet. Tomorrow seems a hundred years away. Eyes closing. Breath deepens. Humble light will bring us back. Soft opening on the horizon of kindness, humor, and tenacity. Strength against that which would unravel our good work. Hold fast, never weary.
*Photograph by Amber Grange
