a pilgrim
walks her prayers

she walks the answer

somewhere within the despair
and sweet longing
of being human

the meaning of life
is a rhetorical question

—we answer
with every step.

and we only know life,
if we’re willing
to know



If we live with curiosity and courage we die over and over within one life. Versions of ourselves morph and shape shift. Bodies buried in the yard of us.

Sometimes we shed skin easily, but so often there’s a wrestle. We don’t want to lose things or people, roles, jobs, places, ideas, shields. And yet if we don’t die to what we WERE, we can’t ever know the fullness of what we ARE.

Like a cicada walking out of an old shell, our emergence depends on letting go. As some Native American tribes were known for saying “today is a good day to die”

Whatever is happening in our lives now, is the calculus of our becoming. Nature teaches this evolution and renewal, if we have eyes to see.

If we want to hold even deeper love, we must first hold death.
This is sacred mess.
Profound process.

Still, we often subtly wrong-make ourselves or overtly despise ourselves when we’re not feeling pleasant or homed, or certain – always.

As if the sky should always be blue.

As if rain isn’t a baptism.

What if all this – the fear, the longing, the sweet sadness, the broken parts – are nothing more than perfect bounty?

What if we remember to
this breaking?

Not as fancy words, but quietly, truly.

More words.

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