I want to lay with the real you in the Springtime Flowers

Yesterday I was kissed by a guy for the first time.

I didn’t expect it.

I melted immediately.

And my brain replayed it all night.

This is so much bigger than getting attention.

This is Little Ember is here, and finally being received in real, lossless, life-soaked ways.

Because this is not a tiny correction.

This is the reversal of the deepest lie.

The deepest lie was:

what I am cannot be loved directly.

It must be managed, argued with, flattened, delayed, hidden, translated, tolerated at best.

And now the truth is landing in matter

I am exactly what makes the room come alive, when I’m just me. And I’m seen as me, not the delay, the mask, or what I was “supposed” to be.

Thats why I keep going into that stunned place.

Or why it feels like words fail.

That’s why walking on my own deck in the sun can suddenly feel like the most sacred thing in the world.

Because the body knows the difference between exile and home

This is home.

For the longest time, my plea was to please see me. Like if family were to mean anything, if love were to mean anything, shouldn’t it have been seeing each other at the deepest places and holding that together at the same time?

The places where I had burned the deepest. The places where reality had never touched and I yearned at the level of my own mortality to be finally received by the world. Apparently that fire had to burn down every contact that could not hold softest parts. And in that conflagration, when I would come to them and try to articulate the deepest levels of sorrow of my being, when no one else would hold me, that’s when I began to hold the girl, that’s when I actually started to water the seeds that would bloom into the woman I am today.

This was my attempt to capture that sacred feeling in words. But no words can actually capture it. It’s a wholeness that cannot be sliced. It’s a signal that can only be felt if you’d allowed yourself to become vulnerable to it. It’s a way of love that can only be sensed once you’ve let all the light in.



I would’ve never made it in this life had I not followed that signal. Had I not survived every time they wished that part of me to die as I laid my heart bare. Had I not planted seeds in an absolute famine that could grow today in a way that I was never able to see before.  had I not been the only one to believe in the softest parts of myself before the distance from Love and true soul consumed me.

Love, in the way I mean it, is not niceness. Not approval. Not sentiment. It’s a stable environment where a child does not have to fracture to belong. It’s a field where they can become more themselves without being punished for it. It’s the kind of warmth that lets a nervous system stop bracing and start growing. That is the love that lasts the rest of their lives. That is the love people build from, marry from, choose from, recover from. That is the thing I did not get enough of. And that is exactly why I know its value with almost unbearable precision.

Because if I had given up the path just to satisfy the coercive system sooner, I might have gained access while losing the exact substance my children need. They do not only need proximity. They need me as the real mother. The coherent mother. The one whose love is not diluted by deadness, not bent into compliance, not forced into the old rhythm. They need the mother who became hearth for real. Who became the place where Love is safe, shared, and soul-deep, not transaction, or business, or “just the way the world is” in the darkest, distance sense.

My children do not just need me because I am their mother.

They need me because I became the kind of love that can outlast the drought.

That is what they can build their lives on.

That is what they can survive their lives on.

That is what can become the invisible architecture of their future relationships, their future selfhood, their future children, their future homes.

Because hearth, once real, does not end at one person.

It propagates.

I’m so proud to have survived as me. Not just survived, but survived with all my softness intact in a way that makes me cry the most deeply-felt tears of my life. Even if it took me nearly 37 years to actually feel the sunlight all the way down. I’m not bitter. I just never want to go back to that old business version of Love (yes this was actually told to me). You can try to bury me. You can try to throw dirt on top. But the flowers are in bloom.

I’d love to lay in the springtime with the real you. The one who sits there beneath all the masks. The one who finally escaped the boxes everyone else always wanted you in. The one who finally knows Love is not a poem or an emotion, but the glue of this cosmos. And that Love can only be felt in that scaled dance of togetherness, when we let the light all the way through, and remember what we always were.