You’ll find a whole woman here.

I’ve been breathing in this rich, earthly air for 28 years, 7 hours, and 24 minutes now. Breath in, breath out. I’ve screamed some, I’ve cried some, I’ve held some, I’ve sighed some, I’ve sung quite a few, I’ve laughed through many. Though I’ve had my share of ‘breathtaking moments’, my breath has never truly been taken away. And for that I am grateful. I breathe now. I breathe now with a body that was not mine when I was born. I have been created anew more times than I know, and yet, I lay here now, 28 years, 7 hours, and 31 minutes later, exactly as I was born. There is still newly realised yet eternal perfection in me. I am still whole and innocent and gloriously unknowing. I am still, at the core of it, a pure conduit for Love – I am still utterly lovable and loving.

As I begin to round out my 20s, I see myself really stepping up in being my own most loving, consistent, wise, and accepting counsel and advocate. I see myself sinking steady roots into the fertile soil of this simple fact – I like myself, I love this woman that I am. In this, I am becoming the strongest of trees.

Now come lover, oak to my cypress, you’ll find a whole woman here. Growing and ever-changing, but even in my most bare days, never incomplete.

Come lover, oak to my cypress, you’ll find a whole woman here.

Love one another, but make
not a bond of love.
Let it rather be a moving sea between
the shores of  your souls.

Fill each other’s cup but drink not from one cup.
Give  one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf.

Sing and dance
together and be joyous,
but let each of you be alone,

Even as the  strings of a lute are alone
though they quiver with the same music.

Give your hearts, but not into each other’s keeping.
For only the  hand of Life can contain your hearts.

And stand together, yet not too
near together.  For the pillars of the temple stand apart,

And the oak tree and the cypress
grow not in each other’s shadow.

from Khalil Gibran’s The Prophet

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