A record of that moment.

Not a lesson. Not an argument. A witnessing.

I received myself.

Not a new idea.

Not a revelation.

Not even something I thought had much value.

I received myself, and it filled my cup, effortlessly.

The thing is, I picked up Nicole Daedone’s Eros Sutras expecting to receive something. A direcion? Maybe. A better map.

Instead, I found myself scattered between the pages.

Little pieces of myself tucked into corners I had forgotten.

A sentence here.

A feeling there.

A way of seeing the world I had always assumed was too entangled to explain.

For years I have followed something invisible.

Not perfectly.

Not bravely.

Not without doubting myself.

But consistently enough that it has shaped the course of my life.

It does not speak in words.

It does not guarantee outcomes.

It certainly does not concern itself with sensible timing.

It arrives as a feeling in the body.

A softening.

A leaning.

A quiet yes.

Or sometimes a no so clear that every cell knows before my mind catches up.

Reading the Sutras, I found myself wondering if what I have spent years apologising for might actually have value.

Not because Nicole said so.

Because I recognised it.

Like meeting a stranger in a foreign country and discovering they speak your mother tongue.

I felt less alone.

One idea stayed with me.

The true desire is incorruptible.

I have been carrying those words around like a pebble in my pocket.

Turning them over while sipping tea.

Driving.

Watering tomatoes.

Wondering.

What if that is true?

What if beneath all the noise, all the wanting, all the advertising, all the carefully manufactured cravings, there is something quieter?

Something that cannot be bought.

Something that does not expire.

Something that knows.

Not what will happen.

But where life wants to move.

I think I have known this before.

At thirty-seven, I wanted a child.

Not as a concept.

Not as a milestone.

Not because it made sense.

I wanted him.

Before I knew his name.

Before I knew if he would ever arrive.

I listened to his song beneath trees.

I spoke to a soul I could not yet see.

I wove berries into mandalas and whispered prayers into the wind.

Hippy perhaps.

Beautiful certainly.

And yet here he is.

Five years old.

Breathing.

Laughing.

Sleeping in his little bed as I write this.

The invisible thread was real enough then.

So perhaps the question is not whether I can trust it.

Perhaps the question is whether I am willing to hear it now.

Because if I am honest, what frightens me is not that desire will lead me astray.

It is that it will show me clearly.

That some things I have built no longer fit.

That some dreams have been completed.

That some identities have become too small.

And then what?

More uncertainty?

More beginning again?

More walking without a map?

Maybe.

But as soon as I write those words, another knowing rises to meet them.

The same knowing that met me under those trees all those years ago.

The thread never asks for certainty.

It never explains the whole journey.

It only ever whispers:

This way.

And somehow, that has always been enough.