Give Birth to a Dancing Star

Growth is not tender, nor kind. It is a rupture, a breaking apart. The seed does not bloom gently—it splits, its fragile skin tearing as roots push into the dark, searching, claiming space where there was none.

Growth is destruction, and destruction is life clawing forward. When life falls apart, it feels like a forest fire—air thick with smoke, ground left black and empty. Silence follows, heavy and raw.

But from the charred remains, green rises. It always rises. The earth shifts, and we stumble, clinging to the fragile scaffolding of what we once called normal. It crumbles anyway, collapsing into the dust of yesterday. Yet chaos, cruel as it seems, is a midwife. Its hands are rough, its voice sharp, but its purpose unyielding.

The storm rolls in, the sky splits open, and we are torn loose, unmoored, spinning in violent winds. But this storm, this destruction, is not the end.

It is the tearing down of walls too small to hold the vastness we are becoming, walls that must fall to make way for more. One must have chaos in oneself to give birth to a dancing star. —Nietzsche

And so, from the wreckage, something begins. The star does not arrive quietly. It bursts into existence, wild and radiant, spinning into the vastness, born from the ruins of what was.

Let the ground tremble. Let the walls fall. Let the storm rage. For in every shattered piece, there is space being made, space for something luminous, something infinite, something new.

Growth is not gentle. It is destruction. But from the chaos, a new dancing star is born.

(c) R Gordon Zyne