the holy wastefulness of being

I will wade into morning like a man crossing rivers in flood time and the water will take what it needs and leave the rest and I will let it. Bones know their own way home.

Dark earth calls. Must answer. Will sink hands deep into loam and clay until worms thread between my fingers like ancient prayers and roots mistake me for their own kind.

Time flows and does not flow and a man can count heartbeats or stars or grains of sand but the counting changes nothing. Still. The measuring matters.

I will build with these hands what needs building and tear down what needs tearing and the dust of it will write stories on my skin that even God must bend low to read. Some words can only be written in sweat and splinters.

Dawn comes. Goes. Comes again. The spinning world asks nothing of us but everything. Must answer anyway.

So I will gather moments like a man gathering firewood before storm season knowing some will burn quick and hot and others will smolder until the coals birth diamonds and either way the gathering matters the carrying matters the weight of it all matters.

Truth is: we are all burning. Truth is: the light we make belongs to no one.

And when the last hour comes hunting like a lean wolf through long grass I will stand upright and empty-handed having spent everything given everything poured it all out like wine like blood like star-stuff until nothing remains but the shape of my giving.

That's the wild and precious part. The spending. The emptying. The holy wastefulness of being.