The Song

It's been a long while since my heart could soar, came her thoughts.

Days, draining by with the straining weight of obligation, staggered her soul. She reached out her hand to grasp the plow, to grasp the hoe, but they bandied to her blisters and weary callouses. The sun was not a warm comfort but an angry, glaring companion. The wind was not a tender caress but a whipping shout. When could her heart ever rise above and circle about?

It is amazing what power can come through a song. The softest, lilting refrain can undo the bars and locks of the darkest cage. And here came the refrain, the one that broke the straining, burning weariness:

Never, dear soul, were you fashioned to wear the ball and chain. Never, little moving wind, were you meant to be tracked and charted, captured or defined. You are like the sea foam spraying up from no-one-knows-where; tossing up your lovely, silver hair from the farthest reaches of the deep to the shallows beyond, where man may see. You take from the store of your shimmering heart to bring food to the lips of the dying. Indeed, this is the mystery: none know where you get this giving from. But I will tell you the secret: it is borne from the Kingdom of Love.

You are like water, which man cannot grasp in his hand. If he reaches for it, it is beyond him. So also it is beyond a man to call you what you are, for you are something new, emerging from My heart. You are the little moving wind, which no one can fit into a mould to shape according to his design. No, for You are Mine.

So now, My little heart: fly.

Written by Samantha Lindholm
May 20, 2014