And Yes, We Are Here

Somehow, despite the long night, despite the hidden griefs and silent thresholds we all have crossed—or are crossing—we are here. Still becoming. Still capable of awe.

There are times when the road seems endless, when every step we take feels like a surrender, when the shadows of what we have lost stretch long before us. At these moments, it seems impossible that anything could emerge from the silence that follows the storm of grief. The heart, once so full, becomes a well of absence. The days stretch into one another in a rhythm that seems to mirror the very ache we carry. The wound is deep, and the world around us seems suspended in a hush, as if waiting, like us, for the light to return. And yet, even in these darkest places, a tender, quiet whisper reminds us: "We are here."

Somehow, despite the nights when our thoughts are tangled in sorrow, despite the edges of pain that have carved their marks upon us, we remain present to this moment, present to the mystery of our lives unfolding. It is almost as though life itself refuses to let us go, urging us to rise once more, not in grand gestures but in the quiet, fragile act of simply continuing, of waking once again to the world around us. This, too, is a profound grace. We are not abandoned; we are still here. We are still becoming.

In the quiet, in the shadow, in the grief that lingers like the scent of rain upon the earth, we are still becoming. It is often in these moments of inner stillness that we find something of the heart's truest essence. The heart knows that it has been broken, yet it continues to beat. It knows that it has been bruised, yet it still knows how to love. Even in our sorrow, there is an unmistakable tenderness that holds us together, a silent understanding that all things, both the joyous and the painful, are part of our becoming.

There is beauty in our vulnerability, in the way we open to the world, despite the pain. We are fragile, yes, but it is through this very fragility that we come to know the deep, resonant truth of our humanity. When we allow ourselves to feel, to truly experience the weight of sorrow, we open ourselves to a space where grace can enter. It is a grace that does not erase the hurt, but instead tenderly whispers that it is all part of the journey. It is a grace that asks nothing of us but to be fully present, to let the grief flow through us, knowing that it is not the end but a part of something much larger—something that is still unfolding, still becoming.

We are here, yes. But the truth of that presence is more profound than we often realize. In our being, in our coming to terms with the pain we have known, we are creating a space for new life to emerge, for a new understanding to bloom. In every tear, in every quiet moment of solitude, there is the soft rhythm of rebirth. The old, like the autumn leaves, falls away, and in its place, something new begins to stir. We are here, still becoming, still unfolding in ways we cannot always see or understand.

This becoming is not linear. It is not a straight path. It is a spiral that we trace, again and again, through the seasons of our lives. Sometimes, we feel that we have taken two steps forward only to find ourselves back where we began, standing once more in the presence of our grief, our questions, our uncertainty. Yet, even in these moments of apparent regression, we are still moving forward. There is no going backward; there is only the unfolding, the slow emergence of who we are meant to be. It is the mystery of life—how it all works together, how the joy and the sorrow, the beauty and the pain, the quiet and the chaos, weave into a tapestry of becoming that we will only truly understand when we look back from the vantage of wisdom.

But in this moment, we do not need to understand. In this moment, we simply need to breathe, to trust, and to accept that we are here. We are here, not because we have all the answers, but because we have the courage to remain, to stay present to what is unfolding. And in this presence, there is a deep, quiet awe—the kind of awe that arises not from the grand and the extraordinary, but from the simple act of being alive, of bearing witness to the miracle of each breath.

We are here, and that is enough. We are here, and in our being here, we remind the world that life, in all its fragility and grace, is worth living. Every moment, even those drenched in sorrow, is an invitation to be more fully alive. It is an invitation to open ourselves to the tenderness that lies just beneath the surface of our skin, to feel the pulse of the earth beneath our feet, and to hear the soft murmur of the wind through the trees, as if nature itself is gently reminding us that we are never truly alone.

The world, in its great expanse, continues to turn, and with it, we continue to become. We are like the seasons—ever-changing, ever-moving, but never lost. We are like the stars, constantly shifting, but always present in the sky, even when we cannot see them. Our lives are a prayer, a prayer that we offer to the world simply by living, simply by being here.

And yes, we are here. Here, in the quiet spaces where the soul is still learning how to heal, here in the vastness of a world that seems so large and yet so intimate in its beauty, here in the ever-expanding field of our own becoming. We are here, not because we have figured it all out, not because we have all the answers, but because we are still open to the mystery of what lies ahead. And in that openness, there is room for everything: for the pain, for the joy, for the laughter, for the tears, for the wonder, and for the awe that fills us when we realize that we are, indeed, part of something much greater than ourselves.

In the end, we will not be remembered for the achievements we have made or the things we have acquired. We will be remembered for how we loved, for how we allowed ourselves to be vulnerable, for how we embraced the fullness of life with all its light and shadow. And in this embrace, we will find that the journey itself was the gift. We will find that we were always becoming, always growing, always open to the grace that life offers, even in its most fragile moments.

Yes, we are here. And in our being here, in the tenderness of our becoming, we are part of the great, unfolding mystery of life. A mystery that continues to reveal its beauty, its sorrow, and its grace, one breath at a time. We are here, still becoming. Still capable of awe. Still open to the quiet miracle of our own unfolding.

BLESSING

Dear Friend,

May you be gently held in the embrace of the quiet mysteries of life. As you walk through this world, may you find peace in knowing that even in the darkest nights, even through the hidden griefs and silent thresholds, there is a tenderness that awaits you. May you remember, in moments of sorrow and uncertainty, that you are not alone. Your journey is part of the great unfolding of life, and with each step, you are still becoming, still open to the wonders that life offers.

May you have the courage to remain present, even when the path seems unclear, knowing that your presence here, in this very moment, is a gift to the world. May you trust in the rhythm of your heart and in the subtle movements of your soul, as they guide you through both the joy and the sorrow. May you find comfort in the quiet spaces where healing begins, and may you discover, in the simplest moments, the profound beauty of simply being alive.

May you be open to the tenderness of life, and may you see in every breath, every pause, the miracle of becoming. May you walk through each day with an open heart, welcoming both the light and the shadows that shape your story. And may you always be capable of awe, of recognizing the quiet grace that moves through all things, even in the most unexpected places. May you know, in the depth of your being, that you are here for a reason, and that your journey, with all its twists and turns, is a sacred one.

I love You,
Alma