Delicate

What do we do about the delicate things? The things that remain unspoken for how they are unspeakable, for how they change, for how some bubble pops, some tension disperses when we reference them in any way?

The verbal processors love the idea that any and all might be spoken, yet I learned their ways.

Having learned their ways, I see myself choose silence. I see the refuge of truth in the being, the having, the holding, the feeling. I see the way words can carry away the feeling, and yes, they are meant to distribute it, and finally, I see the way I am selfish about it, the way I want to keep the feeling for myself.

I see the way I desire the words of the other, for how it gives me their feeling, and the selfishness of that, to want their feelings for myself. I see the laziness that doesn't want to examine their world in subtler ways, the part that wants the connection to be somewhere other than here and now.

How does one come to know the one who keeps their own counsel? Only through proper attention.

Knowing I desire proper attention, how could I speak?

In speaking I facilitate improper attention, supplying meaning I believe to be precise with the opportunity to be corrupted by another's interpretation.

In being I require proper attention. I live the ache of seeing where it is unavailable, over the activity of gathering lesser attention by crumbs.

Does it leave you lonely? He asks.

I ask him—does anything not leave you lonely, at times? Truly, what I might be is busier, and equally lonely, or even more lonely, for the way my tired bones can't drag themselves to what is easy, can't hear the tone for the static.

There are times in life when I will go without. Said more clearly, in every moment, I might imagine something which is not here, and in so doing claim that I am lacking in some way.

The only choice is in how I will meet this inevitable yearning, how I will see through the lie of lacking and use my abundant imagination for creation rather than my ongoing devastation.

I choose to honor and recognize my imagination as a powerful force, and to see its every working with humble adoration, a mind that simply cannot help itself.

I am the one who decides what of my imagination is worthy of investment. I am the one to be what I imagine, in life, in relationships, in the world, in myself—this is material investment.