You are a whale.
You can sift your world through your baleen teeth. Taste all of it. Spit out what doesn’t nourish you, savor what you love. (Does the dentist tell you to brush more, and stop drinking tea? Do you have time to go to the dentist? Can you even afford it anymore?)
Breathe deeply, dive deeply into those places that no one else goes, no one even knows exists. This is your home. (Does the dog chew on the door, and pee on your sofa? Does the neighbor’s dog run loose and make you angry? Do you lose your keys and spend hours looking for them?)
Glide through your days, into beautiful glowing warmth, slap your tail on the bright surface and make the little people shriek with delight. (Does your car make that horrible squealing noise, and break down at the worst possible times and places? Does your audience ever say “I don’t get it”, or, “my kid could do that”? Do you ever accidentally hurt somebody, and feel terrible about it for days and weeks and months?)
Every living thing is smaller than you. The stars, the sky, the cosmos, they feed your songs of contemplation. ( Do you ever feel like you want to save everyone and everything from sadness, and you think maybe you can, you just haven’t thought of a way to do it yet? Has God added you as a facebook friend, but apparently blocked all your posts?)
Your great eyes see everything as it is, and you are never lonely. (Did you ever go in the bathroom and hide from your kids because you needed a few minutes to yourself? And did they always find you, anyway, and kick the door until you came out? And then when they were grown up and gone to Madagascar, did you text them every five minutes until they asked you to stop?)
You are loved.
You, and me, we are whales.