If things are dying, let them. A hand in hand at the bedside and wounded wailing, let it. Grief that carves through you like a river with teeth, let it. A busy mind grasping to make sense of this wieldly liminal space, let it. Itchy old skin about to peel off, let it. Molasses middle and more questions than answers, let it. Drifting away from the wise center of you into the dark of despair and doom, let it.

Death finds everything. Eventually so does birth. Never on our timeline. Not without labor pains. And though it’s hard (so hard) and we are gritting all of our teeth: let it, let it, let it. 🌑🐍🥚