Light Waiting Inside the Quiet Stone

The sun is up, but the stone is still in your throat. You have carried it through the night, a hard and silent thing you cannot swallow and cannot spit out.

It feels like a failure of courage, this inability to speak what burns behind your lips. But the light does not demand that you force the words out before you are ready.

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

The sacred is hiding in the ordinary act of breathing around the silence. You do not have to crush the rock to be held.

If you bring forth what is within you, it will save you—but not on the world's timeline. The dawn has broken, and the light is already inside the quiet, waiting for the moment the stone turns to bread.