Morning, With Waiting
Tenderness sharpens when permanence isn’t assumed. When attention leaves timelines and returns to the body, what remains is simple: love, aliveness, and this moment— without urgency.
I woke with a quiet sadness this morning.
Not the sharp kind—nothing urgent.
Just the weight of loving someone while standing inside not-knowing.
Waiting has a way of tightening things.
It invites the mind to run ahead, to build timelines, to rehearse endings—
as if certainty could be manufactured by thinking faster.
And yet, alongside the fear, something else was unmistakably present:
the love itself.
Alive. Mutual. Undeniably here.
It surprised me to notice how tenderness sharpens when permanence isn’t assumed.
How presence becomes more vivid when the future isn’t secured.
How cherishing arises not despite uncertainty—but because of it.
The discomfort only grew when attention moved into story:
what might happen,
what should happen,
what would mean something.
When attention returned to the body—to breath, to sensation, to this moment—
the urgency dissolved.
What remained was simple: aliveness. Love. No demand attached.
A song arrived from this noticing.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t sent ahead to prove anything.
It was held gently, waiting for a place of inner safety rather than external timing.
And that was the clearest noticing of all:
Loving without certainty invites a different quality of presence.
One that doesn’t grasp at time.
Doesn’t require resolution.
And allows intimacy to exist fully—
right here.