A tiny hoof print beside the road (deer).
You point North and think: not again.
The lilac is coming, the bluets have arrived.
Spring is all at once and considerably healing.
Walking this morning - crescent moon low on the horizon - I began to see how stories don't end, you let them go and like milkweed dander they simply drift away.
The only activism is internal.
Often there is nothing to say.
My pain is mostly a question of specialness, a confusion of where - and what - is Christ.
I'm going to let that go soon, too.
I am - in you - oddly unshakable, happily sure.
Soon I will drive into Vermont to scatter Jake's ashes, two years after I said I would.
Distance is no impediment to love, and love is not about bodies.
Yet pay attention to who you name - and why.
When I was little - for reasons that are not clear to me - a number of stories were given to me in a sort of ceremony, a secret one.
Yet the true gift is for giving.
Only lately - very recently - has it occurred to me that the stories were not a blessing, but a curse, laid on me in a twisted call for love that I was too young to manage.
Allow me to question my worthiness, okay?
And be vigilant always.
I see the Christ in you.
I reach: say yes: I fall to my knees.