a thing with feathers

by pieces of moments

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune–without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Sometimes I wonder if my dreams will invite me inside so I can sit from my wandering.

Sometimes I pray my dreams and I will meet and in so doing both become real.

Sometimes I hold my dreams in my hands, clutching them close to my body, praying they won’t break and take my heart with them.

Where was that dusky land between innocence and knowledge that stole our ability to dream, and in dreaming remember? Didn’t we want to be brave? Didn’t we want to love and be loved? Didn’t we just want to find our way home?

When did it get more complicated than that? Why did we let it?

This excerpt from Sigur Rós‘ video “Heima” (“home”) is so beautiful in its simplicity that it always makes me cry. It’s connection. It’s the comfortable safety of unconditional love that allows you to expand and grow into your fullest self. It’s where you can stop trying and can simply just be. It’s youth and old age and everything in between. It’s heima. It’s home. Isn’t that the thing for which we all hope?

Von is Icelandic for “hope.”

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