Those words of Poet Marina Tsvetaeva touched my heart, twisted and rung it until kindness oozed out of it.
Tender – that word is so soft, just repeating it makes me go all mushy.
Yes, where does it come from? Do I need to question that word or its origin? Where does this Tenderness come from?
From the depths of within, that word melts the hardened edges and reveals the soft glowing core. When I feel tender I am vulnerable, the fresh new spring growth of mine needs protection from the cold frost bite of feelings trying to burn it or harden it before the leaves fully unfolded. I need to protect this tenderness freezing from that bitter cold of unexpressed grief, cover it gently so it doesn’t get burnt in that raging bush fire of anger. I need to water this tenderness with the soft rain of love everyday and keep it undercover until its tendrils grow strong enough to tightly wind themselves around the poles of grief and anger. The dark poles that are dug deep into the earth of my heart are also the very structures tha tenderness can lean on.
Where does this Tenderness come from?
From the mulch of my heart ‘Tenderness’ emerges as songs on my lips, twinkle in my eyes, touch through my hands – making me soft, open and vulnerable.