So everything is necessary. Every least thing. This is the hard lesson. Nothing can be dispensed with. Nothing despised. Because the seams are hid from us, you see. The joinery. The way in which the world is made. We have no way to know what could be taken away. What omitted. We have no way to tell what might stand and what might fall.
It is a practice, this everything. This holding, this letting
go. Letting go. As if we haven’t learned this one before,
with its wrenchings and heavings. Great waves of want. So we kneel
again at the altar of emptiness, praise the stitching we cannot see,
marvel at the hidden embroidery threading you to me, to him, to her, to dirt,
to the dead fish rising in the coral green sea. We cannot understand
the mystery. Though we pry, we’re not given the why and the how. I know only
what a gift to be soft, to break open and let the world in. What a gift
to struggle, to cry. Every tear an erosion of all that would have us petrify.
The most natural thing we can do is to grow, to flower in the muddle,
to find a breathing place in the dark, and when darkness breaks,
to unroll, to reach toward light. Of course we cling. Life is beautiful.
And so hard, so hard. So hard.