“Take my hand,” he whispered.
Where are we going?
“Shhhh. Close your eyes and trust the to where.”
I looked at him with desire,
a desire that wells up inside, and a bit of it spills over,
out of the eyes,
into a cup of tea
filling the ocean fully.
It was a desire to listen to the quiet whispers.
A desire to be guided, to fully commit myself to the journey that was, at that moment, unseen.
I looked ahead.
The air was painted with a foggy transparent veil.
I did not know if the path was rocky and steep,
smooth and flat,
or dry and parched.
There is no way to know much more than right now, today,
and the wishes, the intentions, the dreams that will carry us into tomorrow,
for later, for another time.
And how is it that our choices and decisions today shape tomorrow?
How do our stories become unpacked enough that they no longer guide
and we become the storyteller of our story?
Or maybe it’s that we come to know the storyteller who guides,
who co-creates with us?
Whatever the case,
it is a slow process,
of becoming closer to the whispers,
closer to the guides,
closer to the picture that is being painted,
closer to the poem’s words that are being strung together,
closer to me, so I am able to be me wherever I go, with whomever I’m with.
I grow and change, yes, as I’m shaped by all that I’m experiencing and relating with.
Yet – it only intensifies the purity and clarity of me,
like light creates deeper and more vivid dances of colors on gems.
The light didn’t create the color, the gem always had it?
Or did it?
I looked at his outstretched hand and decided I did not want to find out today.
There would be another guide.
And the colors would dance with magic soon.