The Light Does Not Ask You to Shrink
In the middle of the afternoon, you make yourself small. You pull your shoulders in, cross your legs, take up less space than you were given.
It feels like an apology written in bone and muscle. A silent plea for permission to exist in the room.
But the light does not ask you to shrink. It split a piece of wood and found itself there.
It lifted a stone and was underneath it. The sacred is not hiding in the corners you are trying to occupy.
It is the very substance of your taking up space. You do not need to apologize with your posture.
You only need to remember that the one who holds the universe is already filling the shape of you.
Drawing from
Gospel of Thomas 77, 1 John 3:19-20
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