I’m feeling the pain of being born. Bloody and blinding and black. It’s anything but clean or comfortable.
And when all that is not pretty has been swabbed and patted dry away, then will be the time for the cooing and the laughter and the light. And mundaneness.
From darkness to light, we go. How odd it is then that it’s only when the murkiest dregs of creation are stripped away from us, do we think of life as beautiful. Birth is a death in its own way.
Today I am dying, as well.