We are moved to tears together, or can be.
Doubling down on certain stories yields only anguish.
Blood was spilled on this hill.
Yet I long for ascent.
We relate differently to weather, yes?
It is meaninglessness we are called to confront.
But it is not possible to be a miscreation.
Where did time go?
I reach one hundred pages of a difficult narrative and now what?
There is a dark place to which I sometimes go and I'm there now, with a stubby candle you said take, and some prayers I wrote what seems like lifetimes ago.
Who cry together, find a way forward together.
Activism is interior is the only lesson.
"Confront" is the wrong word.
I remember swimming naked with M., listening to loons on the lower lake, and later walking back to our camp site, incapable of speech.
The infinite is neither a guest nor a sudden visitor.
This side of Heaven, we learn it as we go.
Access is not the question, but rather what is done within the space we naturally occupy.
Twenty years later I am still confused - hopelessly so - by grief.
I go alone as always, as if because I can I must.