To be holy.

Holiness is a daffodil reaching through cracked pavement.

It’s a safe, sun-soaked kitten napping on her back.

A child giggling with his angels.

Holiness is lounging in a dusty-pink robe mid-Tuesday afternoon. It's fleecy texture on your bare body beneath contrasting to your chilled, bare feet, on maple floors.

To be holy is stumbling upon wonderment at the market. The smell of fresh-cut lemons. It’s the savoury pleasure of a meal cooked for two. Holiness is decadence in all its forms.

Pistachio macaroons.

Wine with a lip stained French woman whispering, ‘je ne sais quoi.’

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I’ve never fucked a woman but I know that’s holy.

Presence. Experience. Surrender.

Acceptance is holy. Of partner, family member, circumstance.

Acceptance of yourself, is holy.

Of the gritty bits inside.

Of the soul sucking, self-perceived disparities.

Can you say you embrace these with grace?

The receptivity and reciprocity of T R U E L O V E, is holy.

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Keeping a window cracked and light turned on in open possibility.

Holiness is reeking of vulnerability after lifetimes of let downs because, what else is a girl to do? How else are you to stay true, to you?

Holiness is genuine.

It’s giving zero fucks about being popular or right. It’s owning your shit, both the failures and victories.

It’s the accumulation of experiences and lessons and the fortitude of presence.

It’s in the moments, between memories, where our mind sits still.

Integration.

Fallibility.

It’s personal refinement.

Holiness is evolution on pause or flying fast-forward. It’s the wisdom of knowing which to ride when.