small pile of heart
practicing my letters
Sometimes the sheer gift of what it is to be alive overwhelms me. It seems strange to say it, but its all too true; like light streaming into a small cloth soaked body, the stitched threads I am (of what holds me as me) seem to take in too much and I stretch out (wanting) to almost break open.
To sing, or to sway like grasses in the fields near the sand dunes and sea where I played in the sun as a child. Anything can trigger it; its almost a presence like love-soaked-time (it sits with you) and wraps you in the robe of Its body, sweet and warm.
True excess of bounty..., and a gift of attention, from practicing meditation probably. Maybe, it just is: Life. The sun soaked thing we crave from nice sunny days--but it burst up from within? Love. Love is always its first name, but it has no boundry. (i shrug my shoulders to say this... i can't say it).
Happy Birthday to you.
Larger post at Tumbleword's other site, as always.
Peace, humor, and grace to all who enter here.