There is nothing wrong. There is nothing to fix or figure, or render more than what it already is, although mind tells me, tells you, do not rest but rather, run. Do not celebrate, but rather, worry. Mind is diversion, to this, to that. And it does not mean to lie to us; it does not mean for me and you to abandon our love, ourselves. It simply knows struggle far too well to risk letting go.

That is why from time to time, I close my eyes (and why you must, too) and say to God and Life (they are one and the same, you know) not in words but in your own version of surrender to the cacophony and ritual of thoughts, “Take me home.”

All of my life (like you), I have pushed, prodded, and performed in roles no one but me (in the end) assigned. But what if, what if, a cup of tea, a pen, a bird’s call, the rub of breath against empty space, and the gathering day, were enough? What then?

The celebration is this: the sound of your heartbeat in the cavern of everything you think you know, tossed into the fire. Watch all of this burn. Be warm. Be home.