Let us uncover the collective shadow of human insensitivity you live beneath.
Let us pick up our spades, and like snow, shovel it off you.
Let us cast it off.
Let us shake the penetrating icicles of shadowy shame off your hair and out of your heart.
Allow me to wipe snowdrops of rejection off your eyelashes and assure you your innate, sensitive vision that notices finely and may sense energy fields and auras and luminosity and energetic ugliness is okay.
Tenderly I wipe sleet from your ears and whisper that your hearing is okay, that you sense subtle sounds, hear guides, receive audible messages, hear the hum of trees and the vibrant silent field of life. All this is true and you are okay.
I hug you joyously and lead you into my kitchen, where we smile and drip onto the warm tiled floor and drink frothy hot chocolate of self-love. I share mine generously, for self-love is completely contagious. The warm liquid melts your tongue, loosens its bindings and words, which delicately express your fragile, gentle, and astounding awareness that moves me to dance.
Together, we allow our bodies to relax and give movement to your pain.
We throw off our soggy mittens and hold hands, warming frozen fingers till they clasp at pens and paint and pencils, giving image and words to our sensitive selves, to your tender soul and its neglect, its suffering, its pain. Pages fly across the floor and sofas and tables, decorating this home in wild imaginings and strident declarations.
As we write and scrawl and create, a right to be sensitive and a need to honour vulnerability emerges from the icy shadowland of collective unconscious and is reclaimed.
I watch as we pause and your eyes lift from the vibrant page, eyes bright with inner light and inner strength, silent knowing. I recognize it for I have tasted it too, when some wise crone led me in from the winter world and defrosted my tongue on the hearth of her heart.
I scramble into the bell tower of my home, swing on the bell cord, and watch your words like balloons release into the atmosphere of life. Wildly, the bell rings out.
I blow blessings on them as they float past me and wait for a whole symphony of bright multi-coloured balloons and a cloud of dark observations to sail on. I am longing to see your words upon this sky, for them to come to rest like dandelion seed puffs, in the hearts of other frozen, landlocked, lost and lonely, sensitive souls.
I descend the tower and your lips are parted and I do believe that you are singing.
And someone is knocking at our door.
Answer it, sensitive one, you have been called.
And I believe someone is rattling on the back door as well, and I am running towards it with hands outstretched.
Towards our future.
Snow wind whips me at the threshold and crunches sharply underfoot.
Beloved, bake me a chocolate cake in the fiery oven of your knowing, for I will be back soon and want to taste your insights on my tongue.
In sincere passion for who you are,