You Do Not Have to Freeze to Be Held

The afternoon stretches out, long and heavy, and you find yourself lying perfectly still beside someone who is finally asleep. You hold your breath, terrified that a single shift or a sigh will break the silence, forcing you to lie again about how you are.

But the light does not require your stillness to stay close. It is not a fragile thing that wakes when you move.

Split a piece of wood, and the light is there. Lift up a stone, and you will find it there.

It is in the creak of the floor, in the dust motes dancing in the sun, in the very breath you are trying to suppress. You do not have to freeze yourself to be held.

The kingdom is not a performance of perfect quiet; it is inside you, right now, even in the tension. You can exhale.

The light knows the truth of your weariness, and it loves you enough to stay awake with you while you rest.