still figuring things out –
from the burned bridges to the smokey treaded waters,
born fruit of the shores of transmution;
from the torn up grounds to the shredded air I could breathe
to this place of color, sun bathed, Gods eternal kiss,
eyes open, I rest in this
I pray for the bridges
I pray for you
the undertow bares solace
and headwaters of the wave
Burning bridges was my prioritized forté. Running was always the easiest route to take in the moment – and the hardest to look back on. Swells of deep regret come with burned bridges. You tread on smokey waters and truly, I’m no great swimmer.
My shadow rested like overcast, and it compelled a theme of leaving behind people and places that still carry pieces of my heart.
You can’t run from yourself, I learned
I curiously day dream on the people they’re becoming, and I embrace the idea of repairing my many bridges in time – meeting them through the muddy waters, and extending our reach of compassionate clarity.
Would they meet me there? In the meantime, I keep trying to build my way through to an existence of presence – of mutual acceptance – better bridges, sturdy, and never to be burned.
We have to make mistakes to learn about our shadows, don’t we. Let them be your gifts in disguise.