I have returned to the sea so many times
as I have returned to the silence
of the womb to hear my purpose again.
And I have returned to love like a sea
whose storms have almost drowned me,
because I swear it’s not the sea
that causes the storm.
When all is said and done or left undone,
I need the sea, the silence, the womb, the love.
And failing to find them when I lose my way,
I must wait till I am broken,
till my stubbornness is cracked,
till I am forced to start over,
not knowing what I want or need.
For when things break open,
there is a hold inside the break
that whispers God’s softness,
though it is hard to hear,
so loud is our breaking.
But in that break is the chrysalis of the world,
never finished, waiting to be carried wetly
from living thing to living thing.
All for the remote and blessed chance
that we might touch the source and
burst into our birthright of aliveness
that rides our small lives
with no care for our small names,
the way that pollen rides the rumps of bees
from flower to flower.
All for the freshness of beginning again.