Spirit

I wanted to hear more about the path you've taken, but then I guess that's how it goes with us. When I want more, you disappear. Too bad. 

During the pandemic, I spent a little time standing out there among the chickadees trying to hand feed them. They tolerated me. Came to within a few feet of me. But I wasn't patient or long-suffering enough to wait for them to come any closer. 

I thought of you the first night that you stayed. How I had to I leave a clear path to the door for you. I snored. You couldn't sleep. You wanted me to drive you home early. Came to within a few feet of me.

Spirituality, you said. I've thought about it often since you said it, wondering what it means to me, if anything, anymore. And what it means to you. 

When I'm quiet, the voice says, open your heart. A simple command but not something I can just do at will. 

Under the medicine, I saw the process happen. One heart inside another and another and another and another. Like those Russian dolls. 

Like a bluebird in a small chamber under the floor.

The outer one is heavily armored, wrapped in barbed and concertina wire, seemingly impervious. Its doors are heavy and nearly impossible to move. But they can be moved. Each successive heart was armored, but slightly less so. All the way down to that tender, vulnerable, wide-open being.  It's all love and joy and light and compassion and acceptance.

Words we speak so cheaply and so easily betray. 

Anyway, I caught a glimpse of it there. 

The work, for me, I guess is to keep opening and to find another way to deal with everything that has tried to seal me shut. 

Open your heart, the voice said. Very clearly it spoke, and with great love.

It's what brings the birds. It's what nourishes the children.