To my higher power,
I don’t know your name. And I don’t care.
I have a sneaking suspicion that you don’t care much about that either.
I will never understand you. However magnanimous the brain, you do not fit inside its cells. You are simply a round hole to a stubborn square peg.
But I know you when I see you, hear you, feel you. You live in the smile from a stranger. A call from a friend. The warmth radiating through kind, patient eyes.
And you travel through words, art, music. Drops of your liquid ride on symbols, colors and sounds. We drink them in not through the mind, which is closed and dry, but through the marrow, open and thirsty. Round holes to round pegs.
This is where you fit: Inside each goose-bump rousing my skin, a gleeful flip of my belly, the delicious resignation of a full body laugh and the rush of heat coating my heart like a plush blanket.
You are warmth to cold. Now to then. Love to fear.
You are my bravest, kindest, highest choice.
And I am your hands. To hit or to hold; to push or to reach. Your voice to scream or to sing; to scold or soothe. Your legs, to run or to stay.
To sit or to dance.
Author: Jenny Spitzer
Editor: Toby Israel