Something wants to be birthed from within me, but I know not what nor how to draw it forth. It is a deep grief knocking in my heart that needs to be expressed. A grief, or perhaps a longing, for something that I cannot name: God, love, my very own Self?
Maybe it’s just that I want to be held. Or maybe I want to hold myself with the kind of tenderness I so often reserve for an imagined other—lover, bird, tiny blossom.
Yes, something is stirring in the secret velvet of my yearning—endless—for that which I already am.
The heart cries out for a witness, and the head a chest on which to rest.