Fields of Spring

It's a beautiful spring morning in the Rocky Mountains, and my heart is cracked open in a million ways. I feel vulnerable, tender, aching and deeply mournful. Depressed again? I don't know, it has sort of a different quality than depression, a sort of melancholy acceptance of what is mixed with a bliss that I can almost taste in it's sweetness but that holds only the promise of reality in it's soft curling tendrils.

What is this life really for? When love is gone, when one is alone in this big world without a hand to hold, without much in the way of family, what is there of substance? Only the self really. Only the meaning that that individual gives to life holds them present here.

I look back on this journey and am mixed with such bittersweet thoughts. So much of it I have loved so much, and so many moments like now, more and more so, filled with a sort of tender acceptance of the impermanence of life, of the fleeting nature of passion and romance, of the illusion that most of it is, and I realize that I'm OK if it's all over tomorrow. I will go in peace and be grateful for what I had not bitter for wanting more. I'm complete if spirit wants to take me home, I will go gratefully.

When I look towards the future, it's hard not to see just more struggle and pointless efforts towards trying to achieve some illusion of "security" and "financial" success. I'm barely interested in the game anymore. I just want to walk through the fields of spring and let the rest go.