If suffering is the path laid down for us, by us

stone by stone,

How might we love

not only each one but

the trying burden of laying them

on the surface of this Earth

(could as easily be the moon. still, it’s not)

for our own feet to walk upon?

If meaning is found


in carrying our suffering

in devotion

– not as martyr, but pilgrim

with full unknowing of why,

or even how-

to the making of a life,

by virtue of its having been given,


might we lean into the expectations

life holds for us

and do right by them

by our own true Selves-

that Essence buried

beneath all the heaviness requiring our backs, hearts, hands

which knows what it is

to burn brightly

for no reason






* with thanks to Viktor Frankl