True love is not
is a feel.
True love is not
is a feel.
‘Hello, Moon,’ said Sun, as he watched her rise above the sea to meet him in the orange sky.
‘Hello, dear Sun. Must we always meet like this? I’d rather hoped we might run, today.’
Sun looked at Moon and smiled.
‘Running is a human thing,’ said Sun, laughing at his fanciful friend. ‘If we were to run like the busy humans do…how would we shine as beautifully as we do?’
Moon thought of this and nodded. ‘Shining is quite lovely, isn’t it. Do humans shine like us, do you think?’
‘Some do. When they stop running,’ Sun replied. ‘And when one shines, usually the one beside them shines, too. So does the next, and the next, and the next until they’ve made a whole chain of humans as bright and shining as we are, sweet Moon.’
‘Oh, how lovely!’ said Moon, as she shone silver over the sea, wondering what a chain of bright, shining humans might look like.
Close your eyes.
Dreams will come.
As Moon sat upon her hill, waiting for the tide to rise, she whispered to Sun, “Sun? What is love?”
Moon wasn’t expecting an answer. She only wanted to ask the question, because if she asked, the possibility of receiving an answer that thrilled her could exist— a question never asked, is, after all, a question never answered.
And as Moon sat upon her hill, trying to understand the question for herself, Sun’s words fell upon her like the sweetest touch of spring.
“Love is whatever it is. And that, dear Moon, is the only answer I know to give you.”
Beautiful, soft heart of mine.
I will play your every beat into the world
proudly, openly, completely.
Let them stomp together through the mud of their island.
We, dear heart, dear sweet, dear love.
We shall fly to the moon.
A friend gifted me a beautiful copy.
The words were swirly, and letterpressed onto white rippled cardboard, and when I read it—Wild Geese, a poem by Mary Oliver—I just knew there was no one in the world that needed it more than I did.
Fast forward to today: a few months after I met this lovely poem, and it met me. I’d planned another blog post entirely— I’d even written it and was ready to post. But the soft girl said, ‘No.’
The soft girl said, ‘share the poem.’
So, here I am.
Sharing the poem. Why?
Because the soft girl said so.
And if you feel it in your heart the way that I felt it when it first found me…then you’ll know the soft girl meant it for you. xx
Wild Geese, By Mary Oliver
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting—
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
When the day moon shines
from its blue morning home,
I reach into the quiet
the tender, sweet moments
There will always be a river,
waiting for me.
And I will lay me down
on her sandy banks,
bathing in the softness of me,
dreaming all the dreams
of this heart-shaped life
There will always be a river.
Waiting for me.
Yesterday, I was a little bit naughty.
I had a blog post to write—and a darling one, at that.
Instead of sitting at the computer, crafting a darling world of words, I leaned over the piano and melted into the melody of other people’s lives for a while. Song after song I devoured until I was there: in that wondrous place that appears when music happens to the world all around me.
I didn’t have a darling thing to write about. I wasn’t feeling the feels, hearing the voice that shouts all the good things into my ear in order for me to spill them into the darling lives of all of you.
I was lost.
Maybe that’s why I turned to the piano and not the computer.
You’d think it was a mistake, wouldn’t you, picking the piano? That I should have at least been trying to write a blog post, pinching at all the threads of darling in my mind, hoping to find the one.
Well. It was no mistake.
Quite the opposite, actually. It was a gift.
Because it was at the piano that I rediscovered the whimsical wonder of Moon River, the subject of yesterday’s darling blog. The glow of the moonlight, the calming drift of the river as she wound her gentle way into my soul. That song. Darling never sounded so sweet, did it?
So, there we were, me and my Huckleberry friend, drifting away—the two of us lost in a dream, tumbling toward the glittery wonder of the rainbow’s end. And all the while, the real world sat quietly and waited for us to return.
What a shame I had to come back from that beautiful place.
Then again, what a blessing.
I had to tell you guys all about it, didn’t I? Because this blog is, after all, how my most darling days are made.
Don’t even get me started about the darling friends I’ve met along the way.