Empty

I am empty. Empty out. All that does not serve is falling through. I am not falling apart but being remade. In the space of the turning wheel I am in that centre hole being turned through the dying of the old - all that my hubris and young self built, crumbling.

I am not done.

I am beginning again.

Like the black sticks, the life will be painted from the death.

But what is mine to do?

How to proceed with this one wild and precious life?

I dance - I move - something deep in me knows whats going on and what to do now. I am alone but unafraid of the next loss or gain.

It is all perfect.

It is as she said it would be - my own life in tatters but utterly full and rich - real.

I am real. For once I just am.

The sun rises rich into my waiting eyes. I lift my hands in salute and smile. I love this world, this sun, the leafless willow in the distance - the ice upon the board walk a sign that the dying must be full and proper for Spring to emerge triumphant. Even death can be a song, even the ending can be joyful - as I experience right now - all belongs.