Edges

There are times when we stand at the edge of things. 
Last night, I stepped outside to watch the edge of daylight turn toward evening. 
It was a sacred time.  I could feel the glistening
evolution hanging in the air as daylight approached evening and evening approached day. 
It was as though they were meeting in my woods, trying to decide if they were friend or foe. 
There was both the ease and the tension
of making peace with what was and what is and what will be.

At the edge, we don’t know.  We don’t know what it will feel like to
yield or embrace or resist what is coming.  We don’t know clearly if we can trust,
if we can let go and allow something newly beautiful to capture us. 
How do the birds go from nest to wing?  How does the bulb inhabit darkness for
so long to then finally reach toward light? How does ice become water? 
When does the shore become wave and wave the shore? 
And how do we become deeper, wiser, more trusting and less fearful? 
How do we become ourselves so completely that our shells fall away, and we are each other wholly?
 
Perhaps, it is simply a process of leaning in, of peering at life with child-like curiosity. 
We move our toes right to the very line and lean as far as we can over that line
until we either fall in or are pulled in or we jump in.   
And in the midst of that transition we are either terrified or thrilled. 
We are either released or confined more to our own lostness.
 
I say… be terrified and thrilled. 
Keep coming to the line. 
Don’t back away from that edge. 
Get yourself in a tangle of thoughts and emotions, but then free fall
into your own aliveness.
Sit on that fence for a time, but then choose to put your bare
feet on the ground of delight… maybe that ground will be fire, maybe the cool of
grass, but get your tired butt off that boring fence of safety.
 
Let our feet be singed.
Let our songs be loud.

Alleluia. 
Alleluia.