Seas between us, and time.
I climb beneath my quilts.
You wake in a bright room.
You are not alone. I move
through dreams dense
with rage. Your children
berate me. There is no
escape. This long winter.
If I don't record my dreams, I don't write. I know this is a
very strong correlation, though I don't completely understand it. Some
images and inspiration come from my dreams, but I think it's more about
consciously keeping that door open, that threshold between my waking
and dreaming self.
I am not recording my dreams.
I am not writing.
For much of my professional career, I worked with victims,
families, and offenders of sexual and domestic assault. I still have no
idea if this work was of any use.
I believe that happiness in life depends much on the ability to
enjoy small things. Birds at the feeder, a kitten's explorations, a
good cup of coffee.
I think we can.
I believe in ornament.
I made my house for myself, but believed it would be filled with other people. The goddess laughs.
I think that a few duties and obligations are essential to a full
life, even if those duties and obligations are to critters who are not
We aren't there yet.
How is it possible to look out -- or into -- this universe, and think there must be something more?
But, still ...
I feel the need to be of use.
I wonder if this need is simply human nature? Is it -- is much -- simply the interaction of genetic directives?
I think about suffering. The suffering of dailiness, the suffering
of tragedy. I think about the fires in Australia, the victims of fire
and flood and genocide. I think about the suffering we inflict upon
each other, and wonder why.
I am astounded that I can believe in certain things so strongly,
yet behave contrary to those beliefs -- often without even realizing it.
How is it that we can be so unaware of our effect upon this world?
If I met myself, would I like me?
Why am I always second, or third, and never first?
How do I delude myself?
Even as a child, I was told that I ask too many questions.
The kitten who chose me is a retriever. Throwing her toy for her to bring back to me is one of my several delights.
Ah, I hold too close, too hard, too long.
No wonder there are countless books on letting go.