Meet Me In The Field

Letter from December 2025

Words don’t come easily, nor do forever thoughts or the whisperings of my love. I want to whittle them softly and sweetly, flow them out and fold them into my pocket, slip them into your palm. Though I try with my voice, it sometimes snags on the thorns of the rose with whom I speak, yet I can’t quiet her incessant singing. A bother. 

But I’ve been told I’m a good writer, so maybe I’ll try that for a moment or a while. It’s my hope that my absolutely overt energy might not peel off of me like the solar flares and fire-sight cries of my missteps in conversation. Honesty scarlet as ruby, that cracks under pressure even with the best intentions, is not my friend at all times. And I carry all of my words with me, packing them into luggage to do what the word says– lug. That which is said or unsaid, true or untrue. And I falter with that. And I fumble and drop. But here I am. Here I write– hopeful, aching, reaching out.

I don’t have the answers. As much as I might grasp at them and extrapolate them, it will never digest. And as I fearfully realize my words begin to digest you, I mourn the imbalanced reflections and ignorant questions. How awful I feel that I hit smack to your tender places every time. Is it from decades of this? Have I faltered this much? It’s okay– that is mine own blame.

I may bring your lips to the water I drink but can never force you to drink, regardless of whether it is even nourishing, let alone safe. I mourn being severed from not being able to give that refreshment to everyone I meet, and that is my sin to bear a long long while. I come here and mix and tangle and knot up my messy messed words, and light the fire of regret within me within 45 minutes of pressing onward. I may pray I can gift you my imperishable hope, but I can’t, and this world offers no recompense for every time it failed. So I falter. And I can’t seem to know the how of treasuring you. Words come too easily but never the ones I wish I could give you. 

I wish petal by petal, I could open you up. Throw about you my shawl of baby girl sister love, of the kind that made me laugh and celebrate joyfully the dimple on your brow, the freckles on your skin, but the consent to do that always seems to blow over leaving the wild wind howling in its wake. I love you, sweet girl. And I’m sorry for every mistake.

But– the sky turns blue-violet each night, and the stars come out, and I know that you are there and I yearn to lift you there. And a shooting star from this night declares you are the joy, and the meaning and fearless dreaming will prevail. And then I remember with a belly laugh, that the light within you that pours copious into her chalice, she who will carry your heart better than anyone could, will never fail. Love radiates. Love relieves. Love brings peace. And its spirit overjoys and floods riverbanks of peace onto the fertile ground that is the human heart. And how precious and sacred that is. And how beautiful. And how astonishing. And how gleaming glory darling. 

When the leaves turn green and the dandelions sway in the breeze, and the lift of our hearts flows up in the warm wind, I hope you know how much I do love you. And how I will always try to repair. 

While shrouding my hair brought new peace and new bridges made, it turned a leaf over to a new world where some of the brightest people in my life and in this world looked at me with fear. You’re safe with me. I whisper in my prayers. You’re precious to this world, to me, to my God. I transmit with all my heart can bear. And I mourn. How the mere presence of one of us humans could incite a fear in another is the doomish echo of this realm alone. And how tragic and impoverished that is. Though this alternate religion flushed me clean into a new world that grounded me– a worn and tattered thing keeps baring the teeth of the last few centuries. It embraces some, it severs others. And that was never the purpose of religion or deen. Treasures and love should be the espouser of faith, and yet fear has run rampant for a long while now. And while the peace is so proclamated you have to wonder and beserkly ask, how??? How can it exclude the very people who are our brightest lights? Those who fly and who flitter and who joyfully wonder?? And I have mourned this and yearned this and prayed to God for relief from this. I live with dissonance in my new spaces constantly. It is culture, I am absolutely certain, and not religion, but alas this world keeps insisting something else.

Rumi says this about relief from the world of men: “Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing there is a field. I’ll meet you there. When the soul lies down in that grass the world is too full to talk about.” Maybe that’s where we can go. Maybe that’s where I’ll hope to find you. To find his family too. For they love you and will love you forever, sweet girl. Even when the world is too full to talk about.

And may the lotus turn sweet, and may you laugh bright again laugh again bright again laugh, and may you always look over your shoulder to find me tearfully celebrating and loving and smiling at your wins. I love you. I see you. I treasure you.

And brighter yet, is the hope in our hearts, and the joy in our love. Where the pear blossoms and juniper and clarence bloom, and the rivers flow freely, and the smiles turn sweetly, and the yoke of the egg bears life. I treasure you, it’s true. And will always seek to soothe the blisters of the world wherever I look. 

I’ll meet you in the grass in the field. Always, and time and time again.