Some nights I can’t sleep. Other nights you can’t sleep. Maybe it is similar for you, when my brain rages like whitewater rapids, trying to keep my body still next to yours, listening to your sound and feeling your warmth, practicing a deeper breath to work through my nighttime dragons.
This passage struck me, and made me remember your gentle reminder of ebbing and flowing, along with our conversation of how differently we might live if we knew just how many days we had left.
A year doesn’t matter; ten years are nothing. To be an artist means not to compute or count; it means to ripen as the tree, which does not force its sap, but stands unshaken in the storms of spring with no fear that summer might not follow. It will come regardless. But it comes only to those who live as though eternity stretches before them, carefree, silent, and endless. I learn it daily, learn it with many pains, for which I am grateful: Patience is all!
from Rainer M. Rilke, one of my favorite German authors