The World is a Gift to Come Home To

Night time comes so quickly.

The not doing still stirring.

Is it the gestation I feel? Or simply fear?

I pick up the tools on hand to write these words.

Hoping beyond hope for a thread of inspiration.

That something beyond myself will take over and deliver me to unknown shores.

It is this magic I crave, this spontaneous aliveness, I witnessed in the black phoebe this morning, as she flitted from driftwood to driftwood.

What even makes sense anymore?

There is so much to lament. So much to recognize. So many names to speak in reverence and remembrance.

Does it have to feel like entrapment? Are the songs of my ancestors too quiet for my ears?

I still wake each morning and watch the light change. This gives me solace.

I am a wild creature, held hostage by ideas and pictures of another time. A beast living within four holy walls, crumbling to nothing.

I only pray to wake up. Help me not engage unnecessary process.

The entitlement echoes … Show me how to live. Spark my wonder.

While all the wild ones dance in the shadows of unsuspecting mothers, distracted fathers, the young who know another way, and our own karmic manipulations.

If there is one thing I know, it is this,

The world is a gift to come home to.