It rises, inevitably gray, and sinks pink very soon after.
It used to hurt that such was so.
I didn't understand.
The light couldn't reach my soul because it was in hiding,
not because winter was upon the world.
I spent thousands and thousands of dollars trying to understand.
But he wasn't a healer, and he didn't care.
The gray ocean swells and sways.
Last year it spoke to me.
It was during this month, probably almost to the day that it did.
It didn't use words. It knows no words.
It spoke to my soul--the one that has long since come out from the dark.
It rose the tide inside as its own tide overwhelmed the rocks and the seals barked,
and very far out a lonely light glimmered in and out of lazy fog.
I asked my soul to tell me what it said. This was my soul's translation:
Suffering isn't necessarily good for the soul.
The slow hand, the steady hand, the strong hand ...
let those be your truth.
Remember, but remember well.
Respect the doubt inside you,
and walk past the thickets of doubters without.
Live with this moment inside you;
and I'll see you next year.