I have not yet slept, though my thoughts have left my heart weary in this cold Alaskan night. The thermometer holds a single, solitary degree on the Farenheit scale, a thirty-one degrees below where water becomes a metal, and I gaze out upon the sleeping town, envisioning a grand metaphysical blanket gently tucking itself into every chilly nook of the dimly-lit streets.
In this, I feel love. It's not a love that involves action as much as it's one that involves surrender, the surrender a sleeping child gives its mother, a love defined by trust and innocense.
There is a plan for us, o sleeping children, that when we awaken we will begin our lives anew, for each day, the world is a lump of wet clay, longing to be shaped and molded by us into whatever we need to provide us with health and serenity in our lives. Though we may not always see this, the clay and the tools with which to sculpt it are all around us. Whether we have a large wealth or borrowed clothing, we all have access to the same tools every day.
Hard times lay ahead, the kinds of times that test one's resolve in the face of seemingly overwhelming adversity, and yet, through all of this, we innocent children, every day, are given the means to control our individual destiny. This is given to us with the freedom to use our imaginations, not only to create practical and logical ways to negotiate our journey, but to have the joy and trust that if we choose to ake a lap of faith and do something simply for the essence of happiness, that this, too, is a miracle, and will be rewarded by good tidings in the days to come.
The challenge is to realize all of the parts of who you are that have already fought desparately to create these ingenious ways to let go of our complex constructs of what is fed to us as reality, all of these parts that want to be free, that want to accept the gifts, that want to accept real and unconditional love back into our lives. Some of us have worked very hard in our mature lies to bury or scare away this trust, but it is never really gone. It's ours to own, and yet it owns us, like a mystic parent, holding us in its arms when we are hurt and cheering us on when we're competing for some sembalence of a victory.
Tomorrow is a wonderful miracle, but it's only earned when you realize that both yesterday and today were, too.