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12 July 2005


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I'm sorry to hear that. Sometimes death piles deep. Like keeps cracking up through it with seed leaves.

Smell the sun, hear the grass, taste your own breath and force laughter until it flows like a primed pump past the hiccups. Why should it need to wait for a rhyme or reason either?


Bad news does seem to come in waves and there are times they drag you with them and keep you under for awhile. I'm sorry. I hope you can remember to look for the blossoms, though they may seem small and hidden, they do bloom again.


On the other hand, Wendy would have loved your garden.


Life is such a paradox. When we let it in, we find how fragile it is. But, if we keep it out, we find how much we miss the deep waters.

I wouldn't trade 80 mph on a motorcycle for anything. Nor would I miss reading these pages.

This is a community I treasure.



Ah, Erin.

Here you are.

Consoling me.

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