Mono no Aware - The Gentle Ache

there is an ache in me,

a quiet fire that does not burn out,

a wound that does not close,

a river that flows without reaching the sea.

it is not the ache of loss alone,

nor the wound of betrayal,

but something older, something ancient, something sacred,

a longing too vast to name, too deep to carry in words.

i have tried to silence it,

to bury it beneath reasons,

to explain it away in the language of wisdom,

but it keeps returning,

like a faithful companion,

like the echo of a prayer that refuses to end.

and I bow,

i bow to the brokenness that teaches me tenderness,

to the loneliness that teaches me presence,

to the silence that teaches me to listen,

beyond sound, beyond meaning,

into the marrow of being.

my unhealed wounds are no longer shame,

they are open doors through which the light enters,

they remind me that I am not here to be perfect,

but to be porous,

to be soft, to be undone enough,

for love to move through me.

there are days and there are nights,

i weep without reason,

mornings I rise with a weight on my chest,

and yet, even there,

i feel the nearness of the One, the Almighty One,

like breath brushing my cheek,

like hands I cannot see,

holding me steady when I falter.

i carry blessings I cannot explain,

graces that arrive uninvited,

forgiveness that meets me before I even ask.

and I know now,

nothing in me is wasted,

not the ache, not the silence, not the longing,

all of it is prayer, all of it is offering.

i love, unapologetically,

with tears, with trembling, with fire,

i love without needing to be returned,

without needing to be understood,

i love, because,

love itself is,

my wound and my cure,

my silence and my song,

my exile and my home.

this pain is not a punishment,

this silence not an emptiness.

they are blessings in disguise,

gifts wrapped in ache,

songs sung in a language too vast for words.

i rest my head in the lap of 'what is',

i let it rock me like a child,

until even my sorrow learns to sing,

until the ache itself becomes a lullaby.

and, also, I know now,

i am not healed, yet I am whole.

i am not complete, yet I am infinite.

for the pulse of the beyond,

beats through every wound,

turning ache into music,

turning silence into prayer,

turning me into a vessel,

that can only bow and whisper,

thank you, thank you, thank you.

I sit with my gentle ache, not as an enemy, not as a burden, but as a sacred opening I dare not close. For in its quiet pulse, I remember Rumi whispering, ‘The wound is the place where the light enters you.’

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© 2025 Beyond Silence. Written by 'the one listening.'

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