Your grief for what you’ve lost lifts a mirror
up to where you’ve been bravely working.
Expecting the worst, you look, and instead,
here’s the joyful face you’ve been wanting to see.
Your hand opens and closes and opens and closes and opens and closes.
If it were always a fist or always stretched open, you would be paralyzed.
Your deepest presence is in every small contracting and expanding,
the two as beautifully
balanced and coordinated
as bird wings.
— Rumi
