Enough

I’ve learned enough to know that sometimes you must wait.  Wait patiently or not so patiently for the small movement somewhere in your body to consolidate, find momentum, and swim gently or suddenly into words or action.

 

I’ve learned enough to know the emptiness and fullness of a room as death waits close by, the way the air is thick and ripe, and leans toward the next breath, the next breath, with slow eagerness or desperation.

 

I’ve learned enough to know that honesty is harder than we think.  That averting our eyes from tender places can become routine, then invisible.  Humble moments are hard earned: a swift and exhilerating sensation of falling open and away.  We anticipate pain, but find, instead, release.