Growing.
It's never easy. Is it meant to be? I wish it were.
Stretching, filling uncomfortable unknown spaces. Reaching outward, away from the familiar.
Becoming.
Bearing.
Birthing.
That's the point of it: to reproduce. To give life. It's never static, ever changing; this cycle of growth: birth, life, death. I carry in the marrow of my bones the weight of countless generations gone before, carry the possibility of those yet to come.
Unless a seed falls to the ground and dies, it can not grow.
This fragile state, this life, this gift.
