Nobody has to write. It's a decision we make. I'm going to do this. It has to do with loving words and also feeling a narrative. It's a substitute for creation, like making love or baking bread. It's hard to write about.
Honesty is difficult, and ascending the next level of relating is even harder. How do we reach each other outside of time and space? What does it mean to want? Lately I have been asked to remember that I am not here to learn the meaning of anything - especially love.
On my end, the fireflies came early this year (and I missed writing it to you). The redwinged blackbirds have not disappeared into the lakes and cattail as usual but stay near the feeder, lovely and insistent. A mystery? In the front yard I mow carefully around the single daisy near the raspberry bushes. You understand.
Or understood anyway. Now I stand in a perilous place and wonder can I go on? And am I alone? I read the twenty sentences and see myself in them - and feel the reciprocal love - but then wonder if I am just being foolish or naive. You have no idea how tired I am, and how I long to rest, and how a certain yes burns near my heart, and signals to the willing: may I curl like a tired dog near the sacredness of your knees?