Tender Place

There's a tender place at the top of your head, where your inhalation rises to kiss a trillion  stars. You meet your Teacher here, in that kiss, and the illusion of distance disappears. You sip from the chalice of the farthest galaxy, whose nectar overflows.

What others may say about your Teacher doesn't matter. For the Beloved doesn't seem like a Teacher to you, but an ancient Friend, whom you haven't seen for 27 billion years. It's quite a reunion, and there are tears at both ends of eternity.

Yet you shrink away, fearing that your sins, your imperfections, make you unworthy. Have a little courage. The Friend isn't interested in your guilt, but in the rhythm and the power of your pulse. How does your heart appear to the Friend? As a perfect diamond, covered in the dust of thought, which the Beloved will polish until it shines like the sun.

It is the sun. And for the gentle work of polishing your heart, the Beloved uses your own breath.

Photo by my hear friend, Aile Shebar