You know that I'm often only half there with you. Sometimes even less.
Usually it's because I fear making a mistake and expect myself to know better.
You know that I struggle to feel good enough as I am in the now.
I step outside of moments and imagine future ones. I spend time contemplating what could be or might be. And all the while I miss out on the fullness of the present moment.
You know that I fear and that pride makes me want to feel prepared for the next moment like a superhero.
I can tend to get really high with excitement -- so focused on imagining possibility. And you know how even this seemingly good emotion can be destructive. It often saps my energy for the now.
You know that I flirt with compulsions and pine for perfect, that I am an adulterer of the moments we're given together -- a thief and a robber of us.
So when something draws me into what's Real, I can fall hard. I crash from fantasy into reality. And I feel jolted and annoyed, disturbed that my thinking needs to be set aside for doing.
You hold your arms open wide to catch me from my fall.
And accept me. You have come to realize this about me and you quietly give me space to adjust into reality.
You show me it's okay to be here. And you live truth that worrying about later-on truly adds no value to my story, to his story, to our story.
I want to fall into the moments as they come, fully trusting in their divine purpose -- loving you more than loving fear. I want to abide.
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