I look to the child held in her mother’s arms, awash in the surfeit of love so vast there is no moment without laughter, no moment of lack or want. She is there, within.

I listen to her heart, beating unquestioning. Its steady, faithful pulse asks for nothing, endures all, quickens and slows to each passing moment, and simply continues. There, within.

I hear her questions. Who told her she needs this boy’s hand on her to hold her steady? Will it be in this lifetime, or the next, that she drops these grasping questions like rocks into her still pond? Then, from the clear wellspring, from the source, will spring forth the curiosity and creativity and the untainted, unending love she seeks. Already there, within.

When she listens, when she is still, only then, can she make her own story, barefoot and full hearted, in the quiet white of morning and in the dead of night. She will find her broken pieces, and tinker and play til they make the music she always knew was there, waiting only to play.