The evening sky was an exhalation that seemed to be coloured with old emotion - red, grey - and I couldn't decide if it looked like sorrow, or weary contentment, or something more brazen. Small, loose clouds were scudding past, dark smoke-puffs from a sacred pipe. I envisioned a grandmother sitting comfortably at the heart of the universe, breathing sunset, blowing smoke, watching over me with a crow-black, root-rich, unblinking eye as I walked along the edge of night.
I wished she would come out of her cosy spot and walk along with me. I wished she would hold me up, guide my path, murmur wisdom into my heart. But she doesn't work that way. She just watches. Or I should say, she watches. She sees me, and so I am giving meaning.
When I think of her regard, I stand a little taller and try a little harder, and remind myself that I am a heroine in a story which the eye at the heart of the universe is watching, caring about, holding. I may not always believe in her, but she believes in me.
And I remember that I myself shouldn't always try to fix other people. Nor smile at them incase they're having a bad day. Nor tell them a better way. Just being myself with my own space alongside them, holding them in my eye and hearing them in my heart, is more than enough. I am not the heroine of their story, rushing in to save them. More often than not what we really is just to be believed in.