how do i float?

These days, there’s not a lot that I can say for certain anymore. I threw out those words from my vocabulary after the leaves fell last fall and my heart came crashing down with them. I learned that nothing is for certain. Not even my bones that will one day turn to ash and return to the earth. I am a spec of dust. A speckle of stone. A blade of grass. A dew drop. Life really isn’t all that serious. It’s a created reality. An outcome of the mind. A gift from God. An opportunity to float through time and space.

How do I float? And where am I floating to?

I think it’s better not to rely on certainty. As terrifying as it is, I want to meet the unknown with open palms and an empty glass to fill. I want to feel the scent of fear drift up my arms and down my spine. I want to flow, and in that flow, find the freedom to feel everything so deeply it turns me to ashes, only to be rooted, planted, and grown, time and time and time again.

What do the cacti in the dry heat of the desert have to teach me about resiliency? What messages does the sun shining down on my scarred skin deliver? If I float down the river and I run into rapids, what of time will I become?

Bell bottoms. Sunflowers. Tim Baker. Pine trees. Fleece. Flannels. Smoke around the campfire. Sap stuck to the bottom of my feet. Summer heat. Tears streaming down the cheeks of my loved ones. Honey on skin. Soft linen. Burning herbs. Hot chocolate. Salt lamps. Hot berry crisp. Embracing. Holding my own bones home.

I leave you, dear reader, with a quote that’s got me thinking deeply this week:

“Despite how open, peaceful, and loving you attempt to be, people can only meet you as deeply as they’ve met themselves.” - Matt Kahn

All for now,

All my love,

Onward.

-m