In the middle of my heart, a star appeared, and the seven heavens were lost in its brilliance.
You have to keep breaking your heart until it opens.
Apparently two, but one in soul, you and I.
Each has to enter the nest made by the other imperfect bird.
Your hand opens and closes, opens and closes. If it were always a fist or always stretched open, you would be paralysed. Your deepest presence is in every small contracting and expanding, the two as beautifully balanced and coordinated as birds' wings.
Everything in the universe is a pitcher brimming with wisdom and beauty.