In this world,
we move as pilgrims,
marked by water,
walking the thin edge
between dust and forever.
The waters recognize us,
ancient, patient,
older than our names.
We are drawn, like the moon,
toward what first gave us breath.
When the waves rise,
they do not threaten.
They beckon.
a remembering,
a call we’ve heard before.
Here, surrender is not loss.
It is released.
A yielding that leads
not to vanishing,
but to return.
Currents carry us
back toward mercy,
back toward the place
where beginnings still wait.
As rivers loosen their grip
and open into the sea,
so we learn to let go
of what weighs the soul.
In the depths,
there is no striving.
Only rest.
And in the quiet heart of the waters,
we are gathered,
held,
and made whole.
a poem by Theda Sandiford
