Threshold of White: A Poem for Wiping the Slate Clean

I stand at the edge of everything I've known,
dust-covered memories cluttering the shelves of my mind,
each regret a stone I've carried too long in my pockets.
The weight of yesterday presses against my shoulders
those words I wish I'd never spoken,
the chances I let slip through trembling fingers,
the love I held back like breath underwater.

But here, in this moment between moments,
I feel the pull of something greater,
a whisper that says it's time to wipe the slate clean.

Your hands shake as you reach for the eraser,
that worn-down nub of possibility
that promises to make the blackboard
of your existence pristine again.
You've been carrying guilt like a second skin,
wearing shame like an ill-fitting coat
that never quite keeps out the cold.

Each day holds a color, an energy, and a teaching
I learned this when the sun rose vermillion
and taught me about passion burning too bright,
when the sky turned indigo at dusk
and showed me how to hold mystery without fear.
Today, the world arrives dressed in white,
clean as fresh snow on mountain peaks,
pure as the first breath of a newborn,
innocent as the space between thoughts
where forgiveness lives.

You see it now, don't you?
The way white light contains all colors
yet appears as absence,
the way it reflects everything
while absorbing nothing.
This is what you're being offered:
not emptiness, but fullness
disguised as simplicity.

I close my eyes and feel the old patterns
loosening their grip on my spine,
the familiar grooves of self-criticism
smoothing out like sand after the tide.
Forgiveness isn't a single act
it's a daily practice,
a muscle that strengthens with use,
a door that must be opened
again and again and again.

You've been standing at this threshold
longer than you realize,
one foot in the past,
one foot reaching toward tomorrow,
afraid to fully cross over
because crossing means leaving behind
the stories that have defined you.

But what if those stories
were never yours to begin with?
What if the voice that says you're not enough
belongs to someone else's fear,
someone else's limitation,
someone else's small vision
of what this life could hold?

Each day holds a color, an energy, and a teaching,
and today's lesson arrives dressed in white
the color of fresh starts,
of pages yet to be written,
of snow that covers the scars
left by winter's harsh lessons.

I breathe in stability,
that deep-rooted knowing
that I am more than my mistakes,
stronger than my doubts,
wiser than my fears.
White grounds me,
connects me to the earth beneath my feet
while simultaneously
lifting my consciousness
toward heights I've only dreamed of.

You feel it too, don't you?
This shift in the air,
this moment when the old you
begins to dissolve
like sugar in warm water,
sweetening everything it touches
before disappearing entirely.

The threshold waits patiently.
It has been waiting
since the day you were born,
since the first time you wondered
if you were enough,
since the first time you forgot
that you are made of starlight
and sacred intention.

I set my intentions like seeds
in the fertile soil of this new beginning:
to speak with kindness,
to listen with presence,
to love without condition,
to forgive without keeping score,
to trust the process
even when I can't see the path.

These intentions glow white-hot
in my chest,
burning away everything
that no longer serves,
leaving only essence,
only truth,
only the luminous core
of who I'm becoming.

You cross the threshold now,
feeling the shift in your bones,
the way the light changes
when you step from shadow into sun.
Your reflection awaits you
in the mirror of tomorrow,
radiant and renewed,
carrying the wisdom
of everything you've survived
and the bright promise
of everything yet to come.

Each day holds a color, an energy, and a teaching,
and you've learned white's lesson well:
that purity isn't about perfection
but about presence,
that innocence isn't about ignorance
but about openness,
that stability isn't about stagnation
but about deep roots
that allow for tall growth.

I am crossing over,
you are crossing over,
and suddenly,

She emerges from the chrysalis of old limitations,
wings unfurled in pristine white,
no longer bound by the stories
that once seemed so permanent.
She carries wisdom in her posture,
reflection in her eyes,
practice in her deliberate steps
across this threshold
into her next, most radiant chapter.

She knows now what the mystics knew:
that every ending births a beginning,
that every forgiveness frees the forgiver,
that every clean slate holds infinite possibility,
and that white light
pure, stable, transformative white light—
contains within it
every color of the rainbow,
every shade of experience,
every hue of hope.

She has crossed the threshold.
She is the threshold.
She is the white light
and the consciousness it illuminates,
the slate wiped clean
and the hand that does the wiping,
the forgiveness offered
and the heart that receives it.

In this space beyond person,
beyond the limitations of I and you,
she exists as pure potential,
as the energy that moves
between one breath and the next,
between one day and another,
between who we were
and who we're becoming.

Each day holds a color, an energy, and a teaching,
and she has learned them all,
integrated them into the white light
of her being,
ready now to step fully
into whatever comes next,
carrying nothing but intention,
nothing but love,
nothing but the radiant possibility
of a soul finally,
completely,
home.

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