The spaces have long been you.
They are still you, but not entirely.
There are pinholes of light where once there was only darkness.
There is space around the sadness.
The thoughts are there, and I cannot resist them, but in letting them be, in letting them churn and wrestle, watching with kind interest as they do, I can practise non-reaction.
I don’t have to run to you. I don’t have to beg, or cry, or wish.
Though I do wish, still.
There was a fog that morning we trudged in silence to the wooden room in the forest.
The sun not yet fully risen.
We watched the flickering candle, our cold, sleepy bodies wrapped
in fleece blankets, hair untidy and uncaring,
and we let it all be.
No resistance. No struggling.
We sat, hungry, but in no rush for breakfast to come. It would and, when it did, we would enjoy it.
But mild, pleasant hunger, and the glaring amber sun warming our rectangle room through the row of windows above our heads, was enough to make my heart soar.
Not in fluttery, jittery delirium,
but in calmness, in grace, in purity,
The spaces are still you, but not entirely.
I think of you, but I think of other things too.
And sometimes, in those most pristine and unexpected moments, I think of nothing at all.