I want to be Rumi or Julian of Norwich.

You want me to be me.

I don’t want to settle.

You smile, thanking me for agreeing with you.

So, how do I be me? Dare I suppose that is a worthy goal? Dare I neglect to follow your gift? Promise is so far from fulfillment in me – the space between hope and heaven. But they are connected, aren’t they? Without heaven, hope dissipates; without hope, heaven disappears into the void.

How do I live in that middle? How do I be the me I am not yet?

My thoughts have stretched to breaking … and you pluck that string to make it sing. It vibrates now in the depths of my soul, close enough to real to keep me hoping.

Wrapped in dark brown leaves, I lift my soul to you, afraid to open it, afraid that it will be dank and dark and moldy, afraid of being embarrassed.

And you take it with delight. You peel back the layers, smooth them, and set them aside. Inside is not dark but light. You take the light within our hands, rolling it into a ball, shaping it like clay, the light dripping from your fingers and oozing between them as you shape and mold and work the form.

You are smiling.

You reach down and kiss the light and I begin to emerge.

And I am smiling, too.

I am smiling in response to your smile; lifting my soul to our lips. I am amazed at your joy, and unable to keep from laughing. It is not an embarrassed giggle but a soft warm assent.

You waive your fingers through the air and let the light dissolve to melody, raining notes upon my head.

‘Ah! Thank you!’

‘Thank you,’ You whisper in reply

‘How can you thank me?’

‘It’s what I want for us: to behold each other, full of wonder and irrepressible joy.’

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 [cropped from photo by Gary Troughton per cc 2.0]