Here, at the beginning of days.
Beginnings, morning dew, another chance at compassion.
I am discovering that sometimes just doing is an act of loving. It is not clever, it is not large in scope or depth or reach. It is not even beautiful.
But it is a subtle act of love. Bearing each morning, reaching out fingertips to shaky anxiety-ridden hands.
It is harder to hear peace when your mornings are clouded by traffic instead of calls to prayer; it is more difficult to find silence when you don’t have the peace of mind to close your ears; it is more challenging to mend when you feel cracked (not broken); it is so much easier to admit what makes you happy when it is already within your grasp.
And somehow it is surprising that it doesn’t ever not suck. Like new mothers we’re conditioned to forget the labor pains, the growing pains. Awestruck by the beauty of our creation, of our babies and friendships and perfectly sculpted dreams, we forget the months beforehand. We forget the swelling feet, the swollen hearts, the rashes of body and soul. We forget what it feels like to have your skin on fire, knowing that only the birth of what you most desire will give reprieve.
Because tear-glistened eyes of joy wash the burden of growing away.
Until you’re back cradling labor pains, remembering the consequences of what it is to build and grow.
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