The Way You Held the Sky
You were looking up.
Just for a moment — not long. Your eyes followed the clouds, slowly drifting in and out of form. You didn’t seem to be thinking about anything in particular. You were simply there, under the sky, as if meeting it.
There was a kind of stillness around you that I didn’t want to interrupt.
Not possession, but presence
You weren’t trying to understand the sky. You weren’t naming the shapes or calculating the weather. You were simply… with it. And in that moment, without touching, without holding in any usual sense, you held the sky.
Not like a trophy or an answer, but like one holds a friend — by being fully present, by allowing.
There’s something profound in that kind of holding. It’s invisible, but you can feel it. It doesn’t try to take. It doesn’t grasp. It simply stays. And that staying becomes a kind of love.
How we hold each other
It made me wonder: how often do we try to hold each other the wrong way?
By fixing, improving, defining. By rushing to help, to change, to solve. But the deepest kind of closeness comes when we let each other be — not in indifference, but in deep, attentive presence.
Sometimes, you hold someone not with your arms, but with your silence.
With the way you don’t interrupt their unfolding.
With the way you keep your eyes soft while their weather changes.
This doesn’t mean doing nothing. It means doing nothing extra — nothing that pushes them into a shape that isn’t theirs.
The wideness of love
Love isn’t always warmth. Sometimes it’s space that says: I see you. I will not shrink you.
This can feel risky. When you stop grasping, you might fear losing. But perhaps the grasping was the beginning of the losing — not the end of it.
The sky is not held by hands, and yet it’s all around us. The moment you try to catch it, it slips. But if you lie on your back, and look up, and stay…
Well, there it is.
A kind of holding you may not notice
There are people who hold you that way. You may not realize it at first. They’re not loud. They don’t offer advice, but somehow, when they’re near, you feel more like yourself.
They don’t need to understand everything about you.
They just need to be willing to stay nearby while the clouds shift.
You might even be that person to someone else — without knowing it.
A quiet return
Later, I asked you what you were thinking about when you looked up. You said, “I don’t know. I guess I just forgot myself for a moment.” And I thought: That may be when we hold most gently: when we forget ourselves… enough to make space for everything else.
Including the sky.
Including each other.
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