The Palabra of Your Soul

recipe arial, patient sans-serif;”>By Brynne Betz
I saw you the other day. I watched you from afar. You thought you were all alone. You thought no one saw you. You wondered if anyone even cared. And when those thoughts didn’t want to leave, when you tried to whisk them away with a gentle but determined sigh, I saw that, too. Your heart, you see, it speaks to me in story, it sings to me in color, it begs me to translate the palabra of your soul.

There are so many things I’d like to tell you, so many secrets I’d love to unravel, but I don’t want to walk in, unannounced, to shock you out of your slumber, out of that safe place you have lived for so long, on your own, all alone. So I wait. And watch. And clutch my hands to my heart like a mother with nothing but love for her precious child.

But I’m not your mother. And you are not my child. I just see you with a depth that feels that primal, with a knowing that feels that significant, with a love that aches to walk you home.

And if I did, and if you dared to invite me in, I would graciously accept. I would clear my slate, I would wipe my feet, and I would enter in, a humble guest in your home, in your You, and this is what I would say.

I taste you as strongly as flavor on my tongue. I breathe you in like scent wafting from the oven or the sea or a flower gently waving, flowing in the breeze. You are familiar, as familiar to my soul as I am to me. I know you, Beautiful, I see you as if you were me.

I listen as your heart, not your voice, tells me stories, of the time he hurt you, of the time she crushed your innocence, of the time you betrayed your own Self in favor of someone else, of what you thought you should do. I see you in high dose snippets, movie bites strung together like beads, the patterns intense, the emotions high. You wear them, your stories, like medals, you carry them like burdensome fat. They wait, unprocessed, unheard, lingering like hope, as silent as clean laundry, as ripe as fermented fruit.

When you speak, each thing you say resonates with colors, your truths revealed ahead of you, so eager to be heard they can’t help but scream out in the brightest way they know how. And I see, my dear, I see. I see your colors, your dust-laden secrets that you thought you had buried. They are alive. And they have so much to say. So much to teach you. So much to share.

So next time you feel alone, why not invite me in, let me help you find solace in the truth that you can be seen. When your heart is open, I will gladly meet you there, in that space in between, where the river reaches up and the sky reaches down, in that space that no one sees but everyone knows, in that space that is your deepest Self, your deepest Truth. Yes, I’ll tell you as I walk you home, that you can be seen. You are seen. And your beauty does nothing less than bring me to my knees.


Honor the palabra, the language, of your soul. Find someone who sees you for who you are at your core, someone who knows how to hold your hand as you unravel the secrets hidden inside you that make you who you are. Be with those who dare to live with wide-open hearts, those who are moved by the beauty of a dew drop and the magic of the sea. For you are the only one who speaks your spoke, you are the only one who has your gifts to share and we need you, we need the wisdom of your soul now more than ever. So come, here, take my hand, let’s walk each other home …


Brynne Betz

Brynne Betz

Brynne Betz is a lover of the sea, of soft eyes, gentle hearts and the wonder in life that escapes even the best of us. She is trained as a transpersonal psychologist and would love to hear from you. Please visit her website at or send her an email at [email protected]

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