Threads

Sacred-Sacred

Survival isn’t always noble, and it’s never planned.

It thrusts itself upon you, and then you move—not into “survival mode,” but just enough to put one foot forward, or simply to roll over in bed.

Sometimes survival is duct tape, silence, a sharp tongue, or a song that hits you just right.

Most times it’s not dying today because you remembered how someone once held your hand or the shoulder that was steady when you needed to lean.

Sometimes it means you break down in the aisle of a supermarket, leave your cart and rush back to the safety of your car, or other times, you have to pull over on the side of the road because the tears are blinding you.

And sometimes it means you just nod and say you’re ok, when clearly you are crumbling inside.

Because sometimes someone dies too soon, and the world stays wrong in a way that never fully realigns.

What is the purpose?

What does purpose look like?.

I have often wondered, if this whole “purpose” thing might be a story we tell ourselves so we can keep breathing.

But what if that’s the point?

What if we made it the point?

To keep choosing, even without knowing why.

To try a thousand ways to live or maybe just survive.

There’s something brave about showing up without knowing, right?

Something courageous about still making dinner, doing laundry and planting a garden.

Still laughing at the wrong time, still dipping your toes in the ocean.

Still trying.

And nostalgia… yeah, that one’s dangerous.

It can drown you or it can wake you up.

You never know which until you’re already halfway under and the saltiness of the tears are on your lips.

But it forces you to feel something, doesn’t it?

And that means something, even if it doesn’t explain anything

So maybe, you weren’t made for anything.

So what?

Because maybe, just maybe, that’s sacred enough.

The Map Between Us

If you could see the map I keep,

you would know I’ve marked every place

where our words found each other.

Some points burn bright

where laughter spilled without restraint,

where truth walked in without knocking.

Some are shadows

the silences that hummed like wires in the dark,

charged,

waiting.

Between them runs a thread

not ink,

not string,

but something older.

It ignores borders,

defies oceans,

crosses whatever distance dares stand in the way.

If you could see it,

you would know:

no matter where you are,

I have already found you.

We’ve been told that needing is weakness.

That strength is self-contained.

That to reach for another

to lean,

to ache,

to be taken care of,

makes us small.

But true need isn’t the chain,

it’s the bridge.

Needing someone doesn’t mean you are broken.

It means you are woven.

Into a pattern of the vast, breathing fabric,

of connection and memory

and time.

Ancient Teaching

The one who loves all intensely

begins perceiving in all living beings

a part of himself.

He becomes a lover of all,

a part and parcel of the Universal Joy.

He flows with the stream of happiness,

and is enriched by each soul.

Quiet Thought

Look to this day,

for it is life, the very breath of life.