2 of 8 — The Stretching
In the early summer of a life now moving,
where roots have taken but wings still test themselves,
I find myself in the middle of becoming—
no longer new, not yet certain.
It is late morning,
the sun higher now, more honest, less forgiving,
casting shadows that begin to look like choices.
The air is warm,
alive with a restless breeze that won’t let stillness settle.
Clouds gather and scatter without warning—
like plans that almost hold.
This is the season of trying,
of stepping forward without guarantees,
of learning the weight of direction.
My mind is open,
but no longer empty—
it questions, compares, wrestles,
trying to make sense of the noise it once welcomed freely.
My heart is open too,
though it has begun to notice its own edges,
to feel what it risks each time it says yes.
And my hands—
they are still open,
but they have started to reach,
to grasp at meaning, at purpose, at something to call mine.
There is energy here,
a quiet urgency beneath the light,
a sense that something is forming
even if I cannot yet name it.
In this growing warmth,
this shifting sky,
I am learning not just to receive—
but to choose.
