This morning my puffy eyes spilled over. The kind of pooling tears that poured out when I sat upright. They’ve been collecting for a while, accruing in between seemingly no-interest days. But it all adds up.
I’d guess that the bulk of us work through perpetual upheaval. Unless somehow you’ve figured out a way to insulate your life from change. But eventually, you’re going to either erode or evolve. Eventually. I took time this morning to quietly appreciate the souls who keep growing up and out after being buried alive. Sure imparts courage to my plundered parts.
Sometimes I don’t even recognize my own eyes. The straining work they’ve done to look at things they’d rather hide from. Things they used to run from. The valleys carved out by rivers of joy-pain rain. The fine lines like tree rings telling of my trips around the sun. The thin skin that cinches in with absurd joy. Our eyes are story keepers and tellers.
There’s at least a dozen things I’ll address today. Maybe just as many I won’t. But they’ll be there, waiting for capacity, compounding in the recesses of my eyes until brimming. And I’ll feel it when it’s time. Perhaps one random Thursday morning before the world sets in.
