Value Your Encoding

For Some…
In the kitchen, where steam curls like whispered prayers,
you learn the first language of your DNA,
the way you season without measuring,
as if ancestors hum through your fingertips.
This is not accident; it is inheritance,
a quiet code etched deeper than bone,
telling you that nourishment is more than food,
it is the art of giving what only you can give.

For others…
In boardrooms, beneath fluorescent suns,
your encoding speaks in the cadence of ideas,
a rhythm others cannot mimic,
though they try to dress it in charts and jargon.
You were born with a compass,
not for profit alone,
but for purpose,
to turn transactions into transformations,
to remind the world that numbers are hollow
without the pulse of meaning behind them.

Then…
Growing up, you felt it,
that strange gravity pulling you toward words,
or music, or the architecture of silence.
Marriage may braid two codes together,
while living single sharpens the edges of your own.
Both are classrooms for the one’s essence,
teaching that love and solitude
are mirrors reflecting the same truth:
your gift waits, patient as a seed,
but seeds ache when left unwatered.

For others of us…
We write on screens glowing like midnight constellations,
or on the walls of a cell where freedom
is measured in syllables.
We might speak in symbols, carve in code,
because wasted gifts are sins that echo,
and if you ignore the voice now,
it will thunder louder in the after-light,
pressing against eternity’s door,
demanding what was always yours to give.