Love's Ancient Pulse

I often wonder if at the end of the day, the psychologists adjacent to my office sit in dismay at the sheer saddness they embrace day in and day out. Mixed with morsals of happiness and lowly, infrequent breakthroughs...do they travel home by car, train, bus, bike or foot, whispering from the cracks in their throat...did I do right by the light within me?

There is only so much they can say. It is not enough, to implement a man-made therapy plan and to work miracles. The turnover rates are nonexistent, and the flow of customers, endless. I have people cry over the phone to me that they need help, they need someone to part the nebulus, thick clouds that block their sight from clear, joyful views. Someone to listen to the bouts of hunger in their belly, still full from a family thanksgiving past.

And I hear their cries as I feel my own. They roll down my cheeks and splash off my shirt to the ground.

But I travel with my head high, shoulders back, and hold onto life in my hands. Go inward I say. Find the light that opens at the close. Choose happiness. Choose white, fluffy light.

And this flame will pass on like torches at the Olympics. We will throw our hands in the air, much like the runners, sweat rolling down our necks--living, breathing, and celebrating the fact that we have become that which we always were before the storm--pure, infinite love.