I know what it means to have cracked fingers from hard work in healthy soil.
I know what it means to do tedious work needed to support strong women birthing goodness into the world through voice, through mind, through body.
I know what it means for the heart to break with incoming sorrow, tears shattering the ironclad bars that held beliefs together.
And I know what it means for the heart to heal, bigger and stronger, wide like a never-ending mouth extending out to all hurting souls.
I know what it means to sing songs of remembrance, of native roots deadened and revived, of whispering longings that come through the trees.
And I know what it means to face a jungle of knotted, twisted fears that dance in a vine choking the shell of a seed that longs to grow towards the sun.
I know what it means to have warm body on warm body transcend into the word, the I am, the knowing of a love beyond form.
And I know what it means to rest in the soundlessness of silence, the resonance of a world filled with an emptiness that can hold an overflow of fullness.
So tell me, sweet longing soul, tell me the dreams that are being dreamt through you.
Tell me about the sprouts that are forming amongst cloud covered sun.
And when you do, we will watch as prayer forms cascading magic into form.
We will watch as sprout takes root, growing deeper and deeper into nourished, dark dirt.
We will see as dreams draw forth the mystery of creation.
A new revelation coming into being.
I love you,