There is light, still light at your centre, a strong quiet flame.
It lights your soul entire, revealing your glory like sun across the beach.
We lose it, this light.
It is not always known by us or seen by us, it becomes unknown, for life covers it over, like creeping ivy.
And we find it hidden from our senses and imagine it gone, making every dawn cold and our spirit frustrated.
No applause or achievement or belief recovers the light. It simply doesn’t.
The light existed before these, it has no relationship with them.
Nor does shame or guilt claim it back, as if they could? How can ivy save the tree? Ivy can only destroy it.
But the light remains, through it all, through every cold and aching dawn, the light remains, unextinguished, un-put-outable.
So we trim the ivy, we do our best, and when exhausted by best, we collapse in despair, still at last.
And find in stillness a window, a window on the light, a different seeing, our soul entire dancing, this flame ablaze.