What are you willing to do to live a holy life?
What are you willing to do to be in the preciousness of each moment,
no matter what it is you are facing?
How far and wide are you willing to have your breath travel—
can it grow you wings?
Can it reach the places in your body that have felt lonely?
How held are you willing to let yourself be?
Can you soften all of your hearts enough
to be able to hear the one that beats deep under the soil?
How willing are you to taste your tears?
To let them flow undamed;
to let them wash away all of the masks
that you have had to wear?
How willing are you to really see with your whole body—
to feel what might never have been felt;
to imagine what might never have been able to be imagined?
How willing are you to realize there is always a third way?
How willing are you to get messy—
to run your fingers through your hair
and undo all that has been done up?
How willing are you to say no, no more?
To rise like the sunflowers—rooted and ready?
How willing are you to tend and protect your own heart?
How willing are you to keep your grief warm
so that it remembers how to flow
without sticking to the insides of you?
How far are you willing to stretch out
joy; pleasure; beauty; belonging?
How willing are you to love yourself—fully, holy?
How willing are you to love everyone else—fully, holy?
How willing are you to sit in gratitude
at a table with all of you?
How willing are you—
to live both holy and wholly?
To live as if they are the same?