Let it be the Mountain she finds Holy—
not because it sparkles,
seduces her
or speaks in riddles,
but because its dark loamy soil
receives her bare feet like a memory.
A prairie hill above the sea,
where grasses bow and whisper,
and the wind carries the salt and scent of things
too old for names—
that’s where the house stands.
Not built from stone,
but from time.
And longing.
And the laughter of those
who once remembered Eden.
Let her dig down,
as if the roots of a wildflower
were waiting to rise through her skin,
lifting her slowly from within—
the stem, the pistil,
the fragile yet indestructible bloom.
Let the soil speak to her in silence,
saying:
You are still loved.
You are still alive.
You are not what happened to you.
Let her turn toward the sun—
not in shame,
but in radiant defiance—
and know in that moment
where her help truly comes from.
Let her running to the mountain
be joy, not dread.
Let her ascent be not an exile,
but a return.
Let her wings unfold brazenly,
as the daughter of the living God.
Not tucked.
Not hidden.
Not compromised.
She does not belong to the mountain that mocks love
and feeds on the ruin of hearts,
or exploits that which is still unhealed
She belongs here—
where her own flesh and bone
become not only family
but friend,
through the common bond
of the soil that gives life to all who dare to sink into it.
She belongs
where peace lives in warm light on cold nights,
where cotton sheets smell of soap and skin,
and starlight sifts through trees
like the hush of forgiveness.
Let her remember her first love..
before the theft,
before the theater.
Before the wound.
Let her toes remember
what it was to wiggle in the dirt
of something unbroken,
unshamed,
true.
Let her find home again—
not in a place carved out for her,
but in the space she reclaims
with her own rootedness.
Let her petals unfold slowly in the sun—
but only with her feet deep in the mountain's soil,
where others also have planted their lives,
becoming one
in harmony of breath and memory and Grace.
She will not enter into a sepulcher
or a place that makes usury of her pain.
She will stand on the mount before the rising sun—
alone if she must,
but never abandoned.
And somewhere in the hush between
the breeze and the soil,
she may yet feel
the quiet echo
of someone still with her.
Let the flower breathe the free air
and she will sing...
"In an old house on a hillside
Next to the sea
Far from the madness, that folds around me
Peaceful and gentle, like sails on the breeze
In an old house on a hillside
Next to the sea
There's a warm light on a cold night
And clean cotton sheets
Soap smellin' skin and tinglin' feet
With stars linin' the skyline
And shine through the trees
In an old house on a hillside
Next to the sea
And when the autumn comes down
We'll get what we need from the town
And all of our friends will be round
In an old house on a hillside
Next to the sea
Moon white as paper and night black as sleep
With old things behind us and new things to be
In an old house on a hillside
Next to the sea
And when the sunshine comes down
My hair will turn golden
And my skin will turn brown
And all of our friends will be round"
https://youtu.be/FPQyn36gzlY?si=B5mtweJP3pbu6jqO
#MattersoftheHeart
