What I truly want to place in your hands,
beloved,
has no shape.
There is no jar to hold it,
no sentence to ferry it from my heart
into yours.
Still...
I keep cupping my palms
as if light might finally agree
to sit still long enough
to be delivered.
You ask me
which turn to take,
what words to speak,
how to stop your heart
from arguing with itself.
And I smile,
for I know that secret ache:
the map you want
is folded somewhere
inside your own breath.
I cannot unfold it for you.
God knows... I’ve tried.
I’ve spent lifetimes trying.
But every time I lean close
to hand you an answer,
it dissolves into incense,
and all you smell
is your own longing.
So I point instead.
Here,
five hundred feet from this moment,
turn toward the place
where your courage stirs.
Then walk
until you hear
your soul knocking
from the inside.
Do not ask me how to open that door...
you were born with the hinges
already in your bones.
Yes, I know...
it is strange that so many
wander to me for counsel
as if I am some lantern
that has figured out
how to tame the dark.
I laugh sometimes,
because I am only learning
a half-step ahead of them.
And some days...
not even that.
But I do know this:
Every time I try to give
what cannot be given,
Love leans in
and whispers,
“Beloved…
your presence is already enough.
Your gentleness is instruction.
Your listening is a balm.
You guide best
by never pretending
you know the way.”
So I sit beside you
in the dust of this world,
offering nothing
but my company
and the quiet faith
that the path
will glow beneath your feet
the moment
you dare
to take the next step.
And somehow...
that becomes the gift
I could not give
by any other means.
~Mme. Pamela McCreight~
(The gal who was incredibly inspired by The Great Sufi Master, Hafiz)
