The Ache That Makes Us Holy

the sun has watched,

age after age,

as hearts split open under the weight of love,

as silence became heavier than words,

as footsteps wandered deserts and forests,

searching for what could never be lost.

the earth remembers too,

how tears once fell into her soil,

watering roots that now carry blossoms,

how blood sank into her stone,

and still she turned,

as if to say,

pain is not the end,

it is a season.

i have known this ache,

a wound without name,

an emptiness that speaks louder than fullness,

a longing not for comfort,

but for truth itself,

it burns,

it heals,

it refuses to leave,

as though it were not my enemy

but my oldest companion.

the river does not question,

why it must carve through rock,

nor does the tree ask,

why storms strip it bare,

so why do i question,

this ache that blooms inside me?

perhaps it is the way the soul,

remembers its own vastness,

a reminder that love,

when lived deeply,

cannot escape its shadow of sorrow.

and yet, even in this ache,

i bow, i bow,

for to ache is to feel alive,

to grieve is to have loved,

to hunger is to have tasted,

and in the trembling of this fragile breath,

i sense a quiet grace,

a light that does not remove pain,

but shines through it,

making even the wound,

holy.

And with this holy ache, I live. I live to witness what unfolds, to walk ahead while rooted in the present. This ache is not a burden, but a sacred gift, a whisper of grace in my chest.

And for this holy ache, I am grateful.

Buddha's word, “In the end, only three things matter: how much you loved, how gently you lived, how gracefully you let go of things not meant for you.” whispered through my eras as I close this piece of reflection.

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

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