Be Truly Present

The sun cracks open the sky like an egg,  
its yolk spilling over rooftops,  
and you are here—  
not in the echo of yesterday’s arguments,  
not in the static of tomorrow’s "what ifs,"  
but in the raw, pulsing now.  
Your breath is a metronome,  
your heartbeat a drumline.  
This is the only moment that matters.  

Make love.  
Not just the kind that fits in a bed,  
but the kind that spills into the kitchen—  
your hands kneading dough,  
fingers tangled in each other’s hair,  
the clatter of spoons and the hush of skin.  
Let your mouth taste salt and cinnamon,  
let your body remember how to be soft,  
how to be a home.  
Make tea.  
Steep the silence in a pot,  
watch the leaves unfurl like secrets.  
Pour it into a chipped mug,  
the one that reminds you  
you are not perfect,  
and that is okay.  

Skip the small talk.  
Let the “How are you?”s dissolve  
into the air like sugar on a summer tongue.  
Instead, ask:  
What keeps you awake at 3 a.m.?  
What do you want to forget, and what do you want to burn?  
Speak in metaphors and metaphysics,  
in the language of scars and starlight.  
Let your voice be a bridge,  
not a cage.  

Bring home a plant.  
Not the kind that lives on a windowsill,  
but the kind that demands your hands—  
the kind you must talk to,  
must watch for drooping leaves,  
must trust with water and light.  
Let it teach you that growth is slow,  
that neglect is a silent thief.  
When you forget to care,  
it wilts.  
When you return,  
it reaches.  

Make your bed.  
Pull the sheets taut as a promise,  
pillow the chaos into order.  
And someday,  
make someone else’s too—  
not to fix them,  
but to say, I see the mess you carry,  
and I will help you hold it. 
Let your hands be a balm,  
not a bandage.  

Be witty, be sharp.  
Let your mind cut through the fog,  
not with cruelty,  
but with clarity.  
Let your words be razors wrapped in velvet,  
slicing through the lies we tell ourselves:  
You are not enough. 
This is not enough.  
Let your laughter be a weapon,  
a way to disarm the world.  

Run wild.  
Like a child through a field of dandelions,  
like a wolf at the edge of the forest.  
Let your feet find the cracks in the pavement,  
let your spirit roam without a leash.  
Create art.  
Not for approval,  
but for the alchemy of I exist.  
Doodle in the margins,  
paint with your fingers,  
write poems in the dead of night.  
Let your creativity be a rebellion.  

Dive into the ocean.  
Let the cold shock your bones,  
let the waves pull you under.  
Surface gasping,  
tasting salt and surrender.  
Dance under the rain.  
Let the droplets stitch a quilt on your skin,  
let the thunder be your soundtrack.  
Be soaked to the bone,  
be unashamed.  

Take risks.  
Let your heart be a gambler,  
rolling the dice with no guarantee.  
Ask things.  
Why do you love me?  
What if we failed? 
What if we flew?
Let the questions be compasses,  
not traps.  

Fall.  
Let the ground be a mirror,  
let the bruise be a map.  
Learn.  
The weight of the earth,  
the strength of your limbs.  
Rise.  
Not because it’s easy,  
but because you are made of stardust and stubbornness.  

Know your value.  
Not the kind measured in dollars or degrees,  
but the kind that hums in your marrow.  
You are a galaxy of reasons to be here.  
Love deeply.  
Let it be a verb,  
a daily practice.  
Forgive fast.  
Let the resentment drip like ink into water,  
until it becomes a new color.  
A new story.  

Release what dims your light.  
The relationships that feed shadows,  
the thoughts that wrap around your throat,  
the guilt that isn’t yours.  
Let it go like ashes on the wind.  
Keep growing.  
Even when the soil is rocky,  
even when the sun forgets you.  
Grow roots in the cracks,  
leaves toward the cracks,  
and let your whole being be a testament:  
This is how it’s done.  
This is how you live. 

The sun dips low now,  
painting the sky in strokes of fire.  
And you—  
you are here,  
still here,  
all here.  
Breathing.  
Choosing.  
Being.