It is the nature of things to be cyclical.
The sun rises, and it sets. The tide rolls in, and it goes out. So, go I.
Every six weeks, I recycle the yearning and drive and desires. They all come back to the yearning, to love, to be in nature, my mama, and good bubbly water. But really, they are all the same- to be held consistently in the places that I am. There is always a sense of reverence, grief, grace, sacredness, and gentleness that is encapsulated in all of this. Its the ocean in my bones, its the ground and sand beneath my feet, it’s the smoke of the campfire in the air, it’s the lightning bugs in the distance, it’s the laugh of my brothers voice, it’s the way my mother hands me the bowl of fruit after dinner, it’s the side eye of my father when I stand in front of the TV while he’s trying to watch something, it’s the way the cat jumps on me in the morning while I’m peeling the sleepies from my eyes, and it’s the hug of the best friend after months and countries apart. It’s all the same. It’s all cyclical. It’s the remembering that I forget. And when I do remember, I remember- because truth always recognizes truth.
And I recognize my true self, my highest self in things that are the truth of my bones.
These bones are made of the ocean that birthed me and the mountains that hold me, of the seagulls that rewind me and the smiles that ground me, of the salty air and of fresh pine.
It is the nature of things to be cyclical.
