A House With Unlocked Doors

Head bowed, there is a piecing light of strength
offered to those
who stand by the fires of Grief
and gently
tend them.

A weariness descends,
the last embers
scarcely flicker,
evoking the raging flame
of feeling
that came before.

Once there is nothing left
to give,
the gateway to receiving
appears.

The fires ask to be fed
the final offering.

Bathed in ceremonial light
cast just the right way,
to make a long forgotten memory
feel new again,
what is remembered
is given
to the flame.

The content slips
and shifts,
burning with Fierce Compassion
in Grief's final glow.

There are ashes now,
making soft and powdery
the distinctions between before,
and
after.

There are ashes now,
refined bits of grit
dusting the space
where bonds
once burned bright.

There are ashes now,
that are blowing
away
to reveal how the surface below
was changed by the heat.

How could the sorrow scorch us
without the hearthstone of
Gratitude
holding steady beneath it?

The kindling that fed the feeling,
the warmth of connection,
the invitation to come sit close
and rest,
the benevolence of quiet moments
spent unwinding truths and mystery.

An intimate inferno blazed bright,
now long out of sight,
Gratitude sweeps the ashes clean
but knows the sweet smokey scent
will not be forgotten.

Gratitude leaves the gate
swung open.

Life will take care of
whether or not
there are comings or goings
brought through this space.

In a house with unlocked doors,
when we sit gently with
human nature,
our acceptance of experience
expands.

Letting the friendship of
Grief and Gratitude
hold hands,

they are always welcome in,
to burn and flare and warm us
with their light.