If your mind goes where you want it,
would your heart follow?
Your heart is not a book of old fractures,
its value measured by the breaks.
It is a garden where every loss,
like a season’s turn,
composts into ground for what comes next.
The name of the last frost is irrelevant.
The thaw is what matters.
But beneath the soil,
a quieter water moves,
a longing not for drama, but for depth.
For a presence as steady as a cedar’s shadow.
This is the soul’s thirst.
So do not mistake the carnival’s flickering lights
-temporary spectacles-for the constellations.
Do not hitch your wagon to a star
that boasts of its own height.
A journey is made step by step,
but a shared journey is a rhythm, a cadence.
This is how we grow, not just age.
Getting old is a clock ticking, the lie we’re sold;
growing is a tree reaching, an ancient stubborn truth.
Your life is not a single note
held to earn its keep,
deceived into believing greed is prosperity,
a drone of duty mistaken for a song.
It is a melody of infinite possible harmonies.
And you are the conductor.
Pay attention to your attention.
Is it dancing with the music of this moment,
or is it an echo, conducting from an old, dusty score?
Are you stepping in the now, fresh and clear?
Or are you stepping from the past, a ghost-led hand?
Are your decisions rooted in today’s sun,
or is the past your only, weary authority?
To trade your true face for a polished mask
is to silence the instrument itself.
Your attention is not a wheel,
stuck in a familiar rut.
It is a bird.
Let it fly across the field of this day.
You are not the passenger.
You are the captain of this sky.