Sharing Grief or Something

If I should weep, my tears do not come from the likes of beaten men who have tried to climb mountains and failed; crossed fiery deserts and died of thirst. If I should weep, know that my tears are from love — the kind that whispers and yearns and protects and always perseveres.

That’s an interesting word: persevere. It means “to bear, from one’s heart, the strength of a thousand gods, and to follow through with that strength.”

But not the gods of war. No. Those gods are not strength incarnate.

The strength of a god comes at breaking points, where a tiny pin of light may lead the way, or no light at all. We wander in the dark during those times, bumping and scratching and telling ourselves that it’ll get better, but not believing it. Not really.

And then, the light. The light from a wind. From a soft whisper. From the love of the divine — from the love that was there all along.

A tiny prick, and at that light, we scratch, our claws becoming the horn of unicorns and the scales of dragons, weeping hot, fires tears into the wounds. We find it, the light, and we weep.

We weep not because we are strong men, beaten, but because our Divinity has become incarnate, and We. Are. Love.

We. Are. Loved.

Speak of the Divine, and when she lifts her head to yours, and when she invites your tears to flow, she will say to you upon her embrace, You are loved.

Right. Because we totally believe that.


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