We arrive along the way,
as different as we are the same,
empty-handed, wide-eyed,
spilled from the one bright source
that spirals the sand and the sky.
No one comes late.
No one is turned away.
The door was never a door.
It only looked that way.
So set the worry down.
You were never asked to carry the whole round world,
only the warm grain in your palm,
only the next kind word.
For love is the strange coin
that grows by being spent.
Hand it all away
and wake up richer than you went.
Open the fist. That’s the whole secret.
A closed hand can hold,
but it cannot be filled,
and it cannot wave hello.
So smile at the stranger.
Grin at your own reflection too.
What you keep, you lose.
What you give walks on ahead of you.
Howl if you have to.
Dance if your feet agree.
Heaven isn’t elsewhere, friend.
It’s here. It’s now. It’s we.
And when some face floats up
warm in you as you read,
that’s no accident.
That’s the point. That’s the seed.
So pass it on, open-handed,
the way it came to you,
already moving, already yours,
and somehow truer the more it’s given through.
Rob Chavez June 3, 2026