gift
small pile of heart
practicing my letters
breathe what is written
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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).
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Larger post at Tumbleword's other site, as always.
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Peace, humor, and grace to all who enter here.
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