Space

While moons rise untethered, and days unfurl, and shadows stretch and yawn, we stuff entire seasons into wood chippers and shopping carts, killing all our time. We stuff our beach bags and turkeys and stockings and tiny mouths with bunnies. We stow our secrets in closets, shove our gifts out of sight, and cram all of our words into causes and cures. We guzzle the new, and crowd out the old; and fill all our heads with our pockets.

What’s left of us is accidental. We wedge ourselves into the crevice of a day, and become narrowed and flat; our bodies numb; our hearts crumbling between the speed of errand and the weight of obligation.

Gather the fragments of your days in separate pieces; sea glass, chestnut, pinecone, egg. Let each one rest in the palm of your soul until you feel it’s endless edge. Stones and stories will give you weight; feather and friend will lift you; branch and bone will give you shape. But space and breath will hold us all together; each to the next. Unpack your hours, let joy tumble out, give her room to spin with open arms; she’s got all the time in the world.