We meet them here,
in the quiet moments—
morning light caught in their lashes,
feet still curled in sleep’s soft forgetting,
the hush before the world rushes in.
We are enough in this breath,
in the way our hands reach without thinking,
in the way our voices soften,
in the way we choose again and again
to stay, to listen, to try.
And yet—
love is both stillness and the opening,
a river carving its way through us,
stretching the banks,
asking if we will soften instead of brace,
if we will widen instead of shrink.
Growth, not from fear of lack,
but because love calls us deeper,
not to be more worthy,
but to hold more wonder,
to bear more sky.
Each child, a universe unfolding,
a question we did not know we needed to ask,
a mirror reflecting not just our tenderness,
but our edges—
the places still tight,
still learning.
And we, theirs—
perfect in our imperfections,
becoming, unbecoming,
remembering and forgetting and remembering again
that we are enough,
and still, love asks us to grow.
So we celebrate—
not just the big, shining triumphs,
but the smallest of victories:
the pause before speaking,
the arms that stay open,
the breath taken before the storm.
This is the path,
this holy undoing,
this widening embrace,
this dance of presence and possibility,
where we are enough,
and we are also becoming
something even greater—
not out of fear,
but out of love.
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