Meditale : The Seedling And The Light

Inside the seed there is no outside,

There is only hush,

A round close darkness,

A tight warm pressure,

A gentle insistence from all directions,

As if the earth has placed a palm upon you and is saying stay,

Become.

Time doesn't pass here,

It gathers.

You do not have eyes,

Yet you sense the difference between stillness and waiting,

Between light and dark.

The silence is not empty,

It is full of instructions written in moisture and mineral,

In the faint pulse of gravity,

In the slow language of what is to be.

Something in you begins to remember itself,

Not as thought but as an urge.

A seam in your shell loosens,

A tiny surrender,

A first opening,

And with it a strange ache appears,

The feeling that you are larger than you've been living.

You split,

Not with violence but from longing,

Downwards first,

A pale thread reaching into the unknown,

Tasting the dark as if it was a book,

And then upward,

Upward where the soil thins,

Where the weight becomes porous,

And where coolness slips in like a new idea.

You push,

You rise,

You break through,

And suddenly there is light.

Not a concept,

Not a rumor,

Not a promise,

A presence.

It spills over you in gold and warmth and astonishment,

And you realize the darkness was never punishment,

It was preparation,

It was the womb of your becoming.

You are small,

But you are here.

You tilt your first green towards the sun.

The world answers with brightness,

And photosynthesis begins.