Sophie
Sophie knows it the moment she opens her eyes: today is the day. The words are already waiting, even before she is fully awake. Yes, she feels it, today I want to write. With a smile, she quickly heads downstairs, straight to her word processor.
She writes:
My beloved,
I want to wear your scent like a bathrobe,
wrap myself in its soft velvet
and let it envelop me.
But the moment I put it on,
it disappears like snow in the sun—
fleeting, ephemeral,
and therefore all the more precious.
That is why I cherish those moments
when you hold me
and I am, for a brief while, completely saturated with you.
Surrounded and carried by your scent, your taste, your voice.
I feel you, hear you, taste you.
My heart, my body, my soul
lie close against yours,
where words become unnecessary.
Your scent reminds me of home.
Your hands invite me,
your kisses tell me I am welcome,
and your voice asks for more.
“Here… here,” your body groans.
“Come.”
And I come.
I am here.
Words remain only a wrapping,
an attempt to hold on to the essence,
like a scent captured in a small bottle.
Sometimes regret fills my heart
when our words fail to understand each other.
And yet, deeper than language,
I always find you again.
In the core.
In the silence.
In the essence where we are one.
She rereads her words slowly, as if tasting whether they truly match what she feels. A smile crosses her face. This is what she gladly gets up for every morning. It feels as though her soul is shaking her awake. And yet she so often fails to write—too many distractions, too much daily noise.
Her life is good now, unlike the last time she began writing. Back then, her soul had to urge her forward through pain. But now… it feels wonderful. She hears her soul whispering: Stay close to what is real. That is where life flows. Do not forget the source.
Absentmindedly, she strokes the tabletop with her fingertips, feels the cool wood, and looks at the morning light falling through the window. She smiles, because she recognizes the voice. It is the same one that once taught her how to listen to herself. Still, she wonders why it is so difficult to remain truly faithful to it. We humans, with all our conditioning—we believe we must first do this, then that. The laundry. The dishes. The endless to-do list. First work, first earn money, and only then allow ourselves something “fun.”
But what her soul whispers is not an encouragement to do something fun. From a depth few seem to know, her soul urges her to follow her heart and create from what she feels. Writing opens a door to inspiration—by simply letting it flow, without directing it. Her breath deepens. Her shoulders soften. Space opens in her chest.
A memory surfaces of that first moment four years ago, when she felt what it was like to live according to what her soul truly wanted to express. Blissful. As if this had always been the intention, as if nothing else had ever existed. The best time of her life.
Then came chaos. Although she remained proud of her first book, of what had been born through her, she simultaneously felt fear, shame, and vulnerability. She wanted it to be seen, yet did not truly dare to place it in the world.
The years that followed brought fear, sorrow, and pain. She had thought she had found the answers—her book overflowed with them. But he—the mirror in her life—showed her something else. He showed her all her shadows. Understanding wisdom is one thing; living it is another. Her soul kept bringing her back to him, until she grew weary.
He was the mirror in which nothing could remain hidden—not her fear, not her desire, not her urge to understand. In his eyes she saw everything she did not yet want to see, and everything she secretly longed for. In presence and in absence, the mirror remained constant. It taught her how to love, to feel, to embody—without knowing whether she would be met, without reaching for confirmation. Because confirmation never came. On the contrary.
And yet something in her continued to believe that it must be possible to remain fully herself, even in connection with another. Sophie now understands: the masculine energy always returns to the feminine. They are two poles of one whole. But in what form would he return?
She chuckles softly. “You’re still doing it,” she whispers. “Yes, I know,” comes the reply from within. There is a rhythm—attraction and repulsion, contraction and expansion, positive and negative. This is how life breathes. Love too.
She thinks of how spiritual books so often speak only of ascent—of growth, healing, moving closer to the light. But for her, it feels as though something also wanted to descend, to land, to take root. Perhaps it is not only about reaching upward, but also about allowing the light to truly flow through her and into the earth. Perhaps it is about nourishing life itself. Not higher. Not further. But truer.
She thinks of where her previous book ended: at the foot of the tree. She thinks of how trees draw water, minerals, and nourishment up from the earth, and from the air take in nitrogen, oxygen, and light. But a tree also gives back through its unique form: to the air it offers oxygen, coolness, moisture; to the earth it leaves leaves, roots, and shade. In this way, it nourishes the life around it. Two currents—upward and downward—moving through everything, helped her grow and gave her a place within the greater whole.
Today, Sophie realizes that awakening is only one side of the path: seeing who we truly are, the bursting open of possibility. Then comes phase two: embodiment. How do we fit who we truly are into the greater whole? How do we remain faithful to ourselves, to our unique form, when our environment challenges us? When our responsibilities are no longer fueled by inner joy? When our relationships repeatedly lead us back into old patterns we thought we had long outgrown?
Perhaps that was the direction her soul had wanted to guide her all along—toward embodiment. She looks at her hands on the keyboard and smiles. Sometimes it is that simple: being present, and allowing what wants to arise to arise. She places her fingers back on the keys and feels how the words are already resting in her hands.
Sophie plucks an apple from her metaphorical tree and bites into it without guilt or shame. She has not fallen. She is not lost. She is no longer searching. She has landed, and she tastes the fruits on her path without restraint.
Sophie closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. What comes now? Am I ready? Inside, she already feels the answer beginning to move. Perhaps this is the beginning of something greater— an authenticity passing through her, and flowing out into the world.