May You Still Remember

May you still remember the part of you

that still dances barefoot in the grass—

the part that trusts beauty without question.

There is a quiet, eternal thread in each of us, delicate as a strand of sunlight caught in morning dew, that remembers something pure and unspoiled. Before the world asked us to be clever, strategic, guarded—before it trained us to weigh the worth of things by their usefulness or gain—there was once a simple trust. A way of seeing that did not ask beauty to explain itself. A way of being that did not need a reason to run toward the meadow, remove our shoes, and let the wild green of the earth touch our bare soles like a blessing.

This part of you is not gone.
It may be buried beneath the duties, wounds, regrets, and the long years of enduring.
But it is not gone.
It waits.

It waits not for perfection or achievement, but for your permission to remember. It waits like an unopened letter tucked in a drawer—faintly scented with old wildflowers, addressed in the handwriting of your younger self, sealed with laughter and a trace of mischief. It whispers not in arguments or urgency, but with the gentle insistence of spring: Come back. Remember.

To dance barefoot in the grass is no small thing. It is a holy act. It is a refusal to be fully tamed by the cement of fear or the tight shoes of expectation. It is an act of remembering that your body was meant to touch the world tenderly, that pleasure and presence need not be justified. The grass needs no explanation. Neither does joy.

And to trust beauty without question?
That is the ancient wisdom that children and elders share.
The in-between years—those stretched tight with striving and proving—may forget. But the child in you remembers, and the soul in you never ceased knowing.
To trust beauty without question is to let your guard down in the presence of something that asks for nothing in return. It is to look at a wildflower and not dissect its worth. To sit beside a river and not ask it for answers. To let the pink clouds of evening soften your thoughts, not because they fix your problems, but because they remind you of something softer than problems—something called wonder.

Beauty does not demand belief.
It does not chase after your approval.
It simply reveals itself, over and over again, in the curve of a fern, the hush of twilight, the way light dances on the water.
And somewhere in you, despite all you've endured, is a knowing that responds. A part of you still sighs when the trees whisper. A part of you still smiles at the smell of rain on warm soil. A part of you still pauses—not because you were told to—but because you are, beneath it all, still capable of awe.

In the long pilgrimage of life, we can so easily lose touch with this part of ourselves. The one that is not efficient or productive, but soulfully alive. The one who hums for no reason. Who cries when a song stirs an old ache. Who lays in the grass just to watch the sky change. We mistake that part of ourselves for childishness, for weakness, for sentimentality. But that part is the root of our aliveness.

To remember this barefoot self is not to regress.
It is to return.
To return to what is essential, unsullied, true.
And sometimes, in the returning, healing happens.
Sometimes, in the touch of grass on your skin, you feel forgiven.
Sometimes, when you look at beauty and let it look back, you feel found.

You don’t need to explain your tenderness to the sky.
You don’t need to apologize to the wind for being tired.
You don’t have to prove your worth to the bees or the blossoms.

They already know.

They already know there is something good and ancient and beautiful in you that nothing has managed to destroy.

Let this part of you rise again—not in rebellion, but in remembrance.
Let it speak again—not in performance, but in presence.
Let it dance again—not for an audience, but for the sheer joy of feeling alive.

And if, one day soon, you find yourself barefoot in a field, smiling at nothing in particular, touched by a beauty you cannot name,
may you know:
You have not lost your way.
You are, in fact, coming home.

BLESSING FROM MY HEART TO YOURS

May you still remember the part of you
that still dances barefoot in the grass—
the part that trusts beauty without question.
May this remembrance soften what has grown too hard,
heal what has been waiting,
and gladden your heart again
with the sheer wonder of being here, alive,
and capable of joy.

All my Love and Light,
An