September has arrived and I am still integrating the arrival of this year. I have not yet landed. I am in this liminal space where nothing happens, and everything passes.
That which was hidden ceases to be trapped inside, and I needed to listen with all my being the intimate silence of my most wounded voice.
I can start to smell change in the wind.
I feel in my roots the passage between endings and beginnings.
The light is dimming. Finally letting me glimpse, without so much blinding fire, the present suffering as the great teacher of my longing. The desire to merge into myself, to reorder the shattered pieces of a puzzle that was once thought complete, and that now changes form and function.
From air, to the waters of my internal oceans through which I have finally dared to dive. Knowing that I can finally breathe.
Wet dirt under my feet. The weeds that I tear in the garden take away the pieces of me that weigh me too much.
Increasingly lighter, my eyelids begin to open. And in this half-opening to being, half-opening to acceptance, I find the peace and calm that spills between my thoughts.
September smells like beginnings, but also like eternities.