The Song Holds the Center
Gather up whatever is gutted. Whatever has had the center pulled out. Don’t just stitch it up; that will never work. Your stitching skills are poor. No thread can hold if the center is pulled out.
Sit next to the gutted pieces of illusion. Sit next to your adulting self who gets up, who does what needs to be done for the children, who carries on. Sit next to the one reeling at the monsters of the world. Sit with the child. Sit at the edge of the hollow center.
Samsara is a ferris wheel unhinged. Sit by the wheel of life, the dervish of the day spinning itself silly. Sit with the invader, with the madness and the foaming. The wide open mouth of the wheel chokes on its own tongue. The spin of power has become too much for some. Nothing without a center can spin.
Sing to the pieces. Sing the center back. Feel the pulse and the churn of life assembling. Feel the potency of a world reorganizing itself around the deep moan of a holy song. Sing for the gathering up of the gutted.
Perhaps that is the redemption. We cannot always hold the pieces together. The spin is too strong. But we can sing. We can become a song.