Consider your relationship with one of your own creations — something that emerged from your heart, from your delight, from your artistry, from your desire to create, serve, bless, play, explore, nurture and more.
You loved it madly, at one time. At one time, you adored it, you couldn’t get enough of it. For days, weeks, months, you stayed up way past your bedtime, canoodling with it, crafting its shape and form. You woke up early, eager to embrace it after a night in which it shimmered through your dreams, a bright current of golden possibility.
You brought it to life, to miraculous, magnificent life. And it renewed your life, in turn. It returned you to your joy, incarnated aspects of your soul you’d never met before. It poured its gifts into the world — truth, radiance, love, nourishment, a safe space to play and grow in wisdom and understanding, a creative container, a garden.
And then…its face grew tiresomely familiar over the breakfast table.
It had needs. It wanted to talk at length about everything, be unbearably intimate. It wanted to hold and be held, to kiss you until your heart liquified into a fine broth, all communion and love. It wanted you to live in that place — that utterly dangerous place. Fearsome in its depth, its openness, its singular devotion to soul, no matter the cost.
So you turned away from it, this creation of your heart. Left it to its own devices while you found new companions to party with.
You find it hard to sleep, these days. Your mind is restless, your heart a distant rumour, a story whose voice it hurts too much to recall.
So, when someone asks you, “If your heart isn’t in it, why don’t you walk away?” you cannot answer. You hear your heart weeping in a corner of the garden, where it has lived since you banished it. You hear your creation breathing quietly nearby, waiting patiently for your return.
What will you do next? What will you choose?