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Now that I’m free to be myself, who am I?
Can’t fly, can’t run and see how slowly I walk.
Well, I think, I can read books.
“What’s that you’re doing?”
the green-headed fly shouts as it buzzes past.
I close the book.
Well, I can write down words, like these, softly.
“What’s that you’re doing?” whispers the wind, pausing
in a heap just outside the window.
Give me a little time, I say back to its staring, silver face.
It doesn’t happen all of a sudden, you know.
“Doesn’t it?” says the wind, and breaks open, releasing
distillation of blue iris.
And my heart panics not to be, as I long to be,
the empty, waiting, pure, speechless receptacle.
~”Blue Iris” by Mary Oliver
 
When I first read this, the lines that pulled me close were the last two: my heart panics not to be as I long to be

Now I come to the poem again, and another line shouts to me:

It doesn’t happen all of a sudden, you know.
“Doesn’t it?” says the wind, and breaks open…
 

Caught in frustration, I cling to the mantra that life is hard, life is work, what we want does not come easily enough.

Then in an instant my breath breaks open and says to me: love.

Love.  You already have everything you want. 

and I say nothing back, but I breathe in and then out, releasing a broken mantra.

In and then out, love emerging all at once all over again.