Real surrender is invisible. Quiet. It can only happen when desperation and grasping finally fall away. Surrender is meek. It is the quiet whisper that’s been waiting in the shadows, not making any fuss, but simply — continuously — urging you onward. Real surrender does not feel strong. It does not feel brave. She asks nothing of you, but requires everything. She adds nothing to you, but gives everything. Surrender is a quiet triumph — one that is so secret and so private that words can barely be uttered. Only silence feels appropriate. Surrender is freefall into the void, where your cries dissolve and merge with the glorious, beautiful silence. Surrender is like the final, nearly silent whimper of a wounded animal, just before it gives its body to the earth. It’s only in that moment of real surrender that you realize: surrender is your dearest friend, your closest companion. Whom you thought you had lost and was desperately, unknowingly, searching for. But in truth, she was so quiet and so small that you simply forgot she was already with you.
