Eyes sat in the deep mystery—
Somewhere between Rembrandt’s Night Watch
and a West Coast beach
just torn from the earth’s rocky heart.
Her feathers—
pale as a moon at winter solstice
With ripples of shadows from the darkest living.
In those eyes,
And from that elevated perch
I am small.
So small.
Yet held.
Carried.
Like a leaf floating down a serene creek,
meeting the rhythm of flow—
a common felt sense,
a unified breath,
where no one holds reign over another.
And still—
all is god.
IFS Reflection Prompts (for staying with this tender arrival):
- What part of me recognizes that serene creek — that rhythm of flow — as familiar? Can I let her speak?
- What parts might feel wary of this kind of surrender? What do they fear might happen if I truly float?
- What do I imagine the Owl sees in me — as I sit below her watchful gaze?
