“When does wholeness happen?”
I asked the dry grass poking through
the snow, and I sat, waiting
for the answer, but the grass did not
speak and neither did the snow.
I looked up into the sky without clouds,
asking what it feels like to be whole,
but the sky just kept staring at me
and never acknowledged the question.
I touched the tree’s bare branches
and asked, silently this time, “Will I
ever be whole?” The tree wrapped
cold limbs around me and whispered,
“Keep asking questions, but stop
looking for answers.”
And as we stood there together,
swaying, I laughed as I realized
that wholeness does not just
happen, and that I already know
exactly what it feels like.
On that bench, still,
for the first time
in weeks, my heart quit
shouting and whispered,
“Thank you for stopping.”
Truth slipped in with each
breath, shining its light
in every shadowed corner.
Moon tickled the river,
illuminating the freedom
rising to the surface
with each rush of laughter.
Stars stood firm, refusing
to spell out answers,
instead, begging me
to shine with courage.
Geese, coasting homeward,
more being, less doing,
more heart, less head.