The Mystery of Coming Home

Weekly wisdom to level up your creative life in 3 minutes

A SHORT STORY

I feel like I’m in the middle of a huge chapter shift—this week I get married, I recently received a promotion at work, and the chaos of the past year is finally beginning to subside.

The way life moves in these patterns feels mysterious. And so, I’ve been leaning into that mystery—learning how to rest in my heart in the midst of it and finding, slowly, a sense of home.

Recently, I came across a story that speaks to that mystery. It’s about a young brother and sister. The sister had a rare blood disease, and doctors were struggling to find a donor who could help her. Finally, they discovered that her brother was a perfect match.

So the doctor and the children’s mother went to the boy and asked if he would be willing to donate blood to save his sister’s life. He paused. He said he had to think about it.

After a while, he returned and said, “Yes, I’ll do it.”

They brought both children to the clinic. The boy lay on one bed, his sister on another. The doctor drew blood from the boy and began the transfer into his sister’s veins. As the blood started to flow, the boy looked at the doctor and whispered:

“Doctor, will I start to die right away?”

The boy had misunderstood. He thought that in giving his blood, he was giving his life. That was why he had to stop and think before agreeing.

Ever since I heard that story, I’ve been reflecting on how that spirit lives in each of us. We touch it when we learn to rest in our heart, allow life to become simple, and when we open ourselves to something larger than our own story.

And maybe that’s the mystery I’m learning to rest in now. Marriage, work, even the chaos of the past year—they aren’t just chapters closing and opening. They’re invitations to give more of myself, to risk in love, and to discover that in the very act of giving, I might finally be coming home.

Where in your life are you being invited to give more of yourself?

A POEM

“It is Not Enough” by David Whyte

It is not enough to know.
It is not enough to follow
the inward road conversing in secret.

It is not enough to see straight ahead,
to gaze at the unborn
thinking the silence belongs to you.

It is not enough to hear
even the tiniest edge of rain.

You must go to the place
where everything waits,
there, when you finally rest,
even one word will do,
one word or the palm of your hand
turning outward
in the gesture of gift.

And now we are truly afraid
to find the great silence
asking so little.

One word, one word only.

Grateful,

Michael