You can live right here
exactly where you are, knowing that your feet are planted right on the edge of the ocean, or the womb of a loch filled with deep, green secrets—know that you can dwell here forever. build your altar, shape it out of small stones, so that you can take it apart whenever you need to. grace, will prove you wrong over and over. this is a promise, a sure thing. build a fire. everyone needs a place to warm their hands. make it safe enough for anyone, but especially for your enemy, and hope that on the other side of the water, they are doing the same. put up your tent, ask God to enlarge it if you think you need more than what you have already been given, but think carefully, because sometimes more, is less. already there is the light that finds you each morning, the heather on the hills, the soft hum of the bees, and the stars of your ancestors swept up in that inky blanket. they will never leave you. you are never far from everyone who has ever loved you—the stardust, and the atoms. and after, when this life is over, you will be there for those who have come from the inner parts of your own cells. eventually your name will be, ancestor. how holy this is. your breath, the gentle thrum of blood against the walls of each vein, the strength in each small bone that holds you up, and all the ways in which you can say, ‘yes’ and ‘no’ and ‘enough’. you are free, whenever you want, whenever you wish, to wade out towards the wet horizon. hold the vastness of this body of water in front of everything that you have stumbled through. there are no failures here, only moments that you have lived through. remind yourself that you were made to swim, that your compass points towards home. you are rich.
© Liezel Graham 2021.