The crescent moon does not hope for a miracle, does not wait for angels to visit for its transformation into a full moon. A predictive path it travels always. The Santa Ana winds do not care about what it tosses around to a pristine landscape. Its nature is to take an unrehearsed trajectory without repentance. White light bends towards the red wavelength when it travels past by a massive mass among the stars. As if the light bleeds from the influence of external pressure!
How do we then host the consequence when life asks to give, give more, demands to provide, furnish every bit of us and then some. We relentlessly and helplessly negotiate what the right thing to do in our being as an overwhelmed spectator. I suppose we show up even with a shattered soul and injured body. Then dig deep for whatever is left to snatch out and deliver more than we assume we possibly could. Neither to change nor to become a barrier of what time would expose dutifully from its grand design, what inevitably awaits and commands unconditional acceptance from us. The wait for a miracle remains only a wonder. The Angeles heard our pleas for an eon and are distressed without anything to offer. We are left with the wait, waiting for any healing to begin, somehow. That’s how it has always been.