It is that place where poems are heard; no, where poems are felt. It is that place where your heart fluttered when stealing a glance at your first love. Do you still remember that moment? It is that place where you have felt the deepest longing and the most gut-wrenching heartbreak. It is that place which causes your boundaries to melt as you soak in a crimson sunset over the mountain cliffs.
The place of tenderness that I speak of is not a mysterious place, whose secret is open only to the mystics and the poets. It is as natural as the first breath taken by a baby as it arrives screaming into this world. It is spontaneous, it is ever-inviting, it is always present.
Yet, we have covered that which is natural by always seeking to be on the run. We have hardened our shells, justifying it in the name of maturity, dogma, and the endless busyness of daily life.
It is indeed queer that the deepest joy and the most devastating sorrow are felt in that very same spot; for though they may seem entirely different, they are of same essence – that of tenderness. By learning to ‘live’ in this world, we often forget that inner spot which helps us to love, to relate, to care and to be moved.
To be truly present is to touch tenderness so that we can love oneself and others, so that we can grieve and yet heal, so that we can accept blessings and yet have compassion for the miseries of others.
The doors to that place of tenderness are always open, always inviting, except that it is guarded by silence; silence with whom we have to make friends to enter deep within.