resting in the breath at the beginning of creation.
the precious petals still spiraled over center.
trusting in the lightless journey of incubation
and the wisdom of growth’s unfolding; beyond fear.
I have grown accustomed to being excellent at everything I do.
I have convinced myself that I must do it all alone.
A forgetting that evolution is ongoing,
and we have ever-shifting knowings
of what is true.
And that I am partially made of you.
Wanting the promised satisfaction of completion,
without accepting the necessity of uncertainty;
the fragmentation required for deeper integration.
The interdependence inherent in real power.
We revere the fully-bloomed flower,
adore its scent and beckoning openness.
But the mountaintop is only one moment of the trail.
The fragrance of forgiveness may draw us towards freedom,
but darkened woods and bottomless chasms
elicit many a vital despairing wail.
Baby birds, bits of primordial viscousness
sticking to their uncoordinated wings,
do not judge themselves for their undeveloped ability to sing.
Roses do not believe they will only be worthy of love when their petals unfurl.
And lion cubs roar with abandon, regardless of their obvious harmlessness.
How can you expect to be at your destination when you are still on the road?
Why collapse your life into someone else’s mold?
What if you stopped demanding perfection,
allowing life its own form of completion?
Put down the sledgehammer of should,
shaming the sap out of your soul
Put down the chisel and awl,
and rest in ever-curious awe
at the beauty of your becoming:
the unplanable inevitability of your timeless blossoming.