We count our lives by birthdays, by accomplishments, by accumulations. We pad our pedestals with compliments, with adoring gazes, with longing gestures, while we stare sidelong at another we've elevated higher, adoring, longing, wishing.
And the moments fall, pitter-pattering away like the little feet that stretch and reach until they fit into our shoes. And then we long for the little feet, the soft, squishy ones that fit in our hands, that pulled our hearts into our throats. But they've grow into big feet that dance their own dance, and climb their own mountains, and kick their own balls and splash in their own puddles.
Puddles made with thousands of drops, rippling our reflections, disturbing our smooth surface. Moment after moment dropping away while we stare at our surface, noting each ripple, each scar. And beneath the surface, the drops coalesce in form, in a brilliant dance, a masterpiece of color and light and song and release and surrender.
Drink in the moments, taste the perfection of now as it rolls over your tongue, as your ears perk to hear it, as your back arches to meet it, as your cells vibrate in unison, shimmying and shuddering. Open your throat to this moment, trusting your breath as it lubricates the passage to your heart, unlocking your gates, expanding your edges, washing, clearing, opening. Drop after drop, subsumed back into the ocean. This drop is all there is.