Sometimes it's important to allow our undoing, to honor our tearstained existence . . . and the kindred who catch us when we stumble.
Beloved, your stumble is safe here. We honor each other in the crumbling of our defenses (whether we tried to grasp at our disintegrating façade, desperate to hide . . . or we flung up our hands, shrugged, and cried on your shoulder in surrender).
We honor each other in gentle listening, holding space for the chasm between us that's somehow both infinite (all we don't know; all we can never understand) and infinitesimal (the universal ache we carry; the Love that stitches us back together).
