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of tacenda, and of certainty.

 


   this month, poignant dreams of my former family stir conflict in my waking life.  i don't emote hatred or bitterness as a dreamer, but i still find expired pain upon waking up to daylight.  a reckoning with reality, and a heap of consternation at having no definitive start or end to the process.


   so i begin with my heart.  where grief sways in quiet shadows, and hope just a ways beyond.  i say thank-you to the difficult memories as i work away at the mess.  often, i edge close to despair of ever transforming the damages leftover from formative years.


   the universe sends me to meetings with animals, friends and loved ones in curiously precious timing.  these living mirrors remind me that we all know of suffering.  each encounter is an opportunity for ancient truth to wash afresh over my eyes: the roots of the word alone are all-one.  


   the woman who taught me how to read and write advised that i only write of what i know.  i mentally filed that directive alongside recipes for writer's block.  for as much as i know, there is much i would forget.  some stories aren't meant to be saved.  and some stories tell themselves without words.

 

   i am confident only of that which matters in this lifetime: kindness.  


   kindness is our recognition and remembrance of one another- an opening outwards of heart.  to be kind is to choose tenderness after knowing of violence.  to care, on purpose, for all beings in love. 


   while i won't write about certain things i know of, i must write about the only thing i am certain of.  it is one thing to be human.  it is another to be human-kind.  


   the difference lives in your heart.

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