You are not a story; any story you are told about yourself is an insult to the possibilities of your grace
One learns about perfection in the perfect imitation, one experiences perfection in rejection of all but oneself
But it never was that hard to see yourself in her, was it?
Love is not nameable
The pleasure of a sun ripened tomato, split between the teeth, will tell you everything
Vanishings open us to see the spaces inside, with acceptance the world expands infinitely
Begin again, like a raspberry bush that was almost lost in the scrimmage of winter, you will fruit again
Driven by ourselves alone, life is a conundrum
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(This is an ongoing project for me and if you have a truth that your heart knows, please send it to me - the message box on the site can be used anonymously.)