“Mirror in the sky, what is love?
Can the child within my heart rise above?
Can I sail through the changing ocean tides?
Can I handle the seasons of my life?”

There is a silent geography within us, a territory where light and shadow dance in an eternal, fragile embrace. We walk through life carrying the raw map of our questions, looking up at the vastness, asking the mirror in the sky for a grammar of what we cannot quite name.

Love is never a loud certainty; it is a pulse, a quiet ache that asks to be lived without armor. We wonder if the child—that small, tender spark we left behind in the ruins of older years—can still rise above the gray dust of routine. That child knows how to marvel, how to bleed easily, how to hope against the logic of the world.

And then come the tides. They do not ask for permission; they simply pull us into the deep, turbulent waters of becoming. Can we sail them? We must, even when our hands are trembling against the wooden helm of our fears. We navigate through the abrupt winters of loss and the sudden, blinding springs of affection, learning that to live is to surrender to the weather of the heart.

In the end, handling the seasons is not about conquering the storm, but about letting the rain wash away the unnecessary, leaving behind a soul wide open, transparent, and quietly alive.

© Beatriz Esmer