I try to imagine why sometimes life is hard and doesn’t work out. We do what we’re asked and more, and still sit stuck in a space that we cannot mend from an old perch. Is it our fate at this time to suffer well, to bruise the universe and transform it through pain? To offer in sacrifice as our mothers did and theirs before, the struggle inherited from one generation to another. I feel the ghosts of ancestors holding my hand, loving me, making promises.
We used to own magic in everyday walk. We used to see sunlight over each cloud. We used to be something we no longer are, and wonder what creature is stirring within to change us so. What will emerge from this dark cocoon? A shriveled life of loss or a great being, so shiny and new, burst through the madness with a force that renews the world.
We pray everyday with no reply. We pray in the darkness of each solemn night. There are no dreams to witness these frights. Only trouble makes our days and clogs a once open heart. How do we still the who we’ve become? Or should we allow the mystery to unfold, because the dark precedes dawn, and never the journey should end too soon before all is learned. How does joy know itself without misery to give it worth?
There are seasons in life they say, and the dead of winter holds as much promise as flowers in spring. But winter seems longer than spring and only after it passes do we witness the blossoms that we were sure would never grow.
But then suddenly, there they are! And how much more beautiful they seem bursting through the melting snow.
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