Writing Life

In the photo above, I am reassured of my worth…I wonder that I ever doubted it. This “now” is one where facts are proven not to be, where wishes lack the power of story, where no information can be trusted.

The separation is so powerful, we doubt we exist at times, let alone that others do alongside. We see them, we hear them, we know them. Then we query their place in our lives – even as we reach for their hand to hold, pinching slightly to prove this tenuous reality.

In Nashville, I raised morning glories from seed on my patio. I put long window boxes under the patio railing & planted them. They grew up the rails of the balcony & softened the view of the beautiful golf course the apartment bordered. I do not recall if they had a scent. I do recall their heartful intensity in growing, tiny tendrils climbing against gravity, waving about. Perhaps they had an inaudible chant: “What can I hang on to? Where am I going? When will I get there?” Despite these valid questions, they simply trusted their sole task & grew, putting out delicate flowers. Tho I echo my own cosmic questions, we reach out together, wrapping ourselves tightly around the best & only life available.

The blossoms appear overnight. They open every morning. I’d like to think that I do too. Each midnight dream gathers love, deep & velvet, fragile, tentative & somehow secure.

In my stony New Mexico backyard, the morning glories I did not plant appear each September, resurrecting from dry brown wisps clinging to the cyclone fence. This September they showed up on the other side of the yard – I watered them gently, wondering if they would discover the laundry rack & as you see, indeed, they did.

I keep driving away life & from life. I cannot escape, but the thought I can draws me forth into the void. I am never out of touch with my divinity, but sometimes it is too remote to grasp. My bouquets at the wedding of life are clouds atop the mountains I scaled to marry stars.



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