For Joy, focus attention and watch until there is little room for expectations. What is true appears. Attending is Love. Allow them to become exactly who they are, each one in its time.
Attend the bee on the goldenrod, the children on vacation, the self.
These days of transition tear at the soul, threatening existential loneliness. The season mirrors the dying inside. The daily definition “Mom” drains away, like the green of active production mellows into yellow leaves. Winter winds soon blow at the door of my life, threatening to lay me bare. I stand, eyes on the fledglings, proud of my work, and faithful. There will be a Spring and a new version of myself.
