What if I really let her existence move me?
What would happen if I stopped cramming life into convenient and neatly packaged little concepts as if my holy experiences can simply be tagged and filed into the appropriate compartment?
What if I risked having my breath taken away, in awe, even through waves of discomfort?
What if I could stay in touch with the sensations in my back, along my rib cage, and even along the blades of my feet?
Am I willing to risk opening my heart to a concept, only to have it popped and deflated — truth taking its place in all its majesty?
What if my love for her was so incredibly sure, so devoid of fear, that I was willing to feel her every breath inside my own body?
What if I knew that her heart was simply so held and protected, because it was none other than me who opted in as its full-time guardian.
What if being moved by her did not appear as a threat, but rather the pinnacle of all possible blessings?
What if her body’s movement, her hair, her experience, was to me simply God’s painting. Alive and revealing in every moment what is coming next.
What if the heartache and yearning were held with a full-blooded humor, dripping with the laughter of every atom which appears as me.
What if, like a staircase of ten thousand steps, I simply gave up on completing the journey. And just rested into the forward momentum, because there is nowhere else to go.
What if the stairs just flew by, as if my legs are throwing them behind me, without end.
What if I were barreling through this open channel, giving up on any hopes of ever arriving in “heaven” because I am too busy creating it here and now.
What if I could really show her the parts of me I have been hiding, out of fear that they may be ripped to shreds (Noticing that in my fear I was imagining her as if she were a rabid wolf).
What if only the kindest and pure-hearted would be willing to help me rip the fear to shreds? My short-sited mentality is caught protecting itself from something helpful.
What if I entered a barren wasteland within myself, finally arriving and not liking what I found?
What if she discovers the dastardly nature of my “true” inner climate. Would she be done with me?
And yet, as I step foot into this wasteland, I see the imprint in the sand below me. It may be underutilized, but it is certainly quite impressionable.
What if I invited her over to play, and we could camp there and sing dry-lakebed songs all through the night?
What if there suddenly appeared a race car upon the six hundred-year-old hope-drought. Not to escape, but ready to entertain and amaze? To have a nice time?
What if I didn’t resist our mutual blossoming?
What if our deep belly laughter didn’t get hung up and bottlenecked right at the good spot?
What if we could be rolling on the floor half the day, vibrant silhouettes of expression while the dog calmly chews her toy?
What if the end of this sentence was also the beginning of a new choice?
What if I were free to decide once and for all, the drought ends now because this water has simply got to go somewhere and this is where it rightfully belongs?
Artist Unknown. This painting was on the wall in our beach house rental in Denmark. She helped us to move through a lot, by role-playing as everything we needed at the time.