This word that I used to have as a brand on my forehead.
Making me an easy target.
For those who would own me.
Those who would prey on me.
Because I am willing to believe.
It is a feather in my hand.
Something to me that is delicate.
That must be preserved, protected, enjoyed.
Without consequence, without expectation.
Faith floats toward me, into me.
Faith lives, and dies, and rises again in me.
Faith. It is simple to me.
Knowing that the snow will melt. Knowing.
Knowing that the bud will form. Knowing.
Knowing that the blossoms will open. Knowing.
It IS knowing.
It divorces me from doubt.
It questions but it does not lose sight.
It is carried, it moves with me, not against me.
Sometimes it is saturated, absorbent, heavy.
It is the roots that continue to dig deeper and deeper.
Tangled and coiled, a hundred different tendrils reaching out.
It is my foundation.
I do not fall over.
I do not break in half.
I hold the feather in my hand.
I embrace the contrast.
The lightness and the depth.
The heaviness and the height.
That is my faith.