There is a haunting in the back of my mind that the doors are closed. That my dreams are closed to me. By some counts, some would say for the type of dreams I have it is “too late.” They may say I am past what can bloom, but the seasons continue past summer. Fall comes, winter comes, spring comes again. And I can still be new no matter how many seasons have already weathered me. I haven’t had a hard life, but I’ve had my own struggles to keep believing in possibility. To keep believing that even I could bloom at midnight.
My mortality chases me daily, and I don’t often win. I am still flesh and blood. I still battle my demons. My mortality chases me daily, and I never win, but in the end I never could. For life is accepting. It’s journeying, embracing. It’s try, try, try again. It’s resting. It’s letting go and trusting that I too have my place in the sun as part of a field of flowers, each blooming magnificently.
Then I remember that:
souls can bloom at midnight too--
in the eleventh hour even.
It is not too late for you to blossom.
It is not too dark for you to bloom.
Maybe you are a rare breed that opens up
and comes alive when the stars come out,
when the galaxies become visible.
The hour you emerge does not make you less of a flower.
It does not make you less worthy
to take your place among the chorus of living things.
This is beautiful and resonates on so many levels.