This body will become food for the forest crows. These eyes will become seeds for a new grove. These hands will dissolve into beds of moss. These feet will become wrapped by bark and beetle. And this womb will become a house of flowers.

Why am I surprised when the yellow tulip dies? Or when my father clears out his late mother's house? Why am I surprised when the fire returns to a quiet glow? When the embers fly away and whimper in the ash? I am surprised by change, even though I wear it as skin.

Everywhere: not enough. Everywhere: not full. The bees are collecting their pollen from the wall of jasmine and the lemon tree is finally sprouting, but I can't help but think there isn't enough shade. I can't see that I'm standing at the bottom of a dark beehive, hanging from a broken tree called life, with honey dripping over my head. I struggle to notice the nectar of small acts, everywhere, and all I have to do is let all this free gold drop into my mouth.

As the tree finds stillness in early December, its red leaves browning and turning to the ground, "Look," you say, "there are flowers growing on the tree tops." Yes, sister: there are flowers, bunches of them huddled in close amidst all that letting go underneath. You sit there, dumbfounded, for you have never noticed a tree blooming and shedding at once. Now you understand your heart.

Listen. I have followed many spiritual paths and traditions and I can say with certainty there is only one teacher worth following to the very end: the one beating in your chest.