It makes no difference, to me, what your skincare routine is. I want to know about your dreams. The ones where you wake up drenched in sweat. The ones where you’re drowning, or flying, or lost, or being chased by a monster that has no face.
It makes no difference to me, what kind of car you drive. Show me the scratch marks left on the hours of the days you didn’t think you’d make it through. How you tapped the buried reservoir, the river below the river, for a modicum of lifeblood. Enough to feed the children.
It makes no difference to me, where you went on vacation. I want to know the quality of your attention, the weave of the basket that holds the breadcrumbs of your life. The gifts Spirit leaves when you’re not looking.
It makes no difference to me, how flawless you look in pictures. I want to know whether your ears perk up when the crow in the woods calls you back to tend to the sacred wild of your heart.
It makes no difference to me, how your house is organized, whether you keep it clean and perfect. I want to know the shape the scars left on your soul, when you clawed your way up the third mountain.
Tell me.
Tell me.
I want to know