I sit with what the season brings, I notice how my desire reaches across the table before my turn, like impatience is a hunger that pretends it’s urgent,
I sit with what the season brings, I admit I have grabbed for things too early and called it ambition, then felt embarrassed when the hunger passed and what I built in its heat had no foundation worth keeping,
I sit with what the season brings, I confess I don’t like waiting because waiting makes me face how little control I actually have,
I sit with what the season brings, can I let what is meant for me arrive without me forcing it forward before the timing has finished doing the quiet and necessary work that I keep interrupting,
I sit with what the season brings, I slow my hands down and remember that the most solid things I have ever built were never the ones I rushed…
I reach with clarity, I recognize how craving can tempt me to grasp too quickly — unsettling what was quietly ripening on its own, in its own time, without any help from my impatience,
I reach with clarity, I admit I have interrupted peace with my urgency, then blamed the world for feeling tense and competitive,
I reach with clarity, I confess the fear underneath all the reaching — that the season will turn without me, that I will be the one left standing at an empty table, forgotten by the very life I was trying so hard to build,
I reach with clarity, is my urgency protecting me or making me look away from gratitude,
I reach with clarity, I build on my own timing — not the world's urgency, not the crowd's calendar — and breathe through the season until what is mine arrives fully formed…
I linger in what is here, I notice how quickly I swallow good moments when my mind is already chasing the next course,
I linger in what is here, I admit I wore seriousness like a virtue and pushed enjoyment to the edges — then sat in the dullness I had carefully built and wondered why nothing felt worth the effort anymore,
I linger in what is here, I confess presence feels risky because it means I can’t pretend I’m too busy to feel,
I linger in what is here, am I willing to taste this moment without planning my escape,
I linger in what is here, I linger with what is offered and let it matter — not as a consolation for what I haven't reached yet, but as the real and nourishing thing it was always meant to be…
I am here by purpose not by accident, I notice how entitlement sneaks in when I forget the simple luck of being here at all,
I am here by purpose not by accident, I admit I have complained with everything already on the table — and the truth of that sits in me not as guilt but as the kind of honesty that makes you straighten quietly and begin again,
I am here by purpose not by accident, I confess gratitude is not a feeling that finds me — it is a direction I have to choose, and on the days when I am emptiest it is the direction that feels the furthest and the hardest to face,
I am here by purpose not by accident, can I receive what this life has prepared for me with the kind of presence that honors it — not rushing the meal, not wasting the quiet, not mistaking abundance for ordinary,
I am here by purpose not by accident, I soften my eyes and say thank you quietly — not because the life I have is finished or perfect or everything I planned, but because gratitude was never meant to wait for the right conditions but instead it was always meant to be the condition itself…
Watchwords:
Impatience is a hunger that pretends urgent,
I’ve grabbed too early and felt empty,
Waiting makes me face little control,
I swallow good moments chasing the next,
Complained with a full plate, sheepish,
Here is Tikatarot, who dares you to answer the question, “Who am I?”..
As and will always be reminding you to dream:
