Psalm 91:4

"He will cover you with his feathers. Under his wings you will take refuge. His faithfulness is your shield and rampart."

World English Bible translation

"faithfulness" in place of "truth"; "rampart instead of "buckler"

rampart: fortification, bulwark

Paralyzed with Paralysis

writing as work is not for me.

Dialogue until I

V1: I'm ready for another adventure. I would happily get on a plane to anywhere, tomorrow.
V2: Isn't that what you're doing?
V1: Yes, but. Maybe alone? Alone, alone. All alone. To Europe, or South America!
V2: You only want to be alone for an afternoon. Then you always get lonely. You want to share the journey. You asked for them. They materialized. And now that they are here and happening, you cringe, you want to run.
V1: I don't want to hurt them, to bring them down; I don't want to see them suffer.
V2: Suffering is part of the game. None of us asked for it, but it's what we get. But we also get laughter, and cream cheese, and sunny wintry mornings with lesson birds and pine trees.
V1: I like all those things. And they're here, why should I stray from so much beauty and magic and everyday wisdom? There is more to explore. right where I am.
V2: There's only one way out of this. You have to go straight through. Even when you're muddled, you have an endless well to draw from.
V1: This love is so big. I'll stay with it, shepherd it, watch over it and let it grow. I won't go. Unless they go with me. We are in this together. We're home and she's almost here. The world will wait for us.

Quotation

Beyond happiness or unhappiness, though it is both things, love is intensity; it does not give us eternity but life, that second in which the doors of time and space open just a crack: here is there and now is always.

Octavio Paz

dear a,

Remember when we went to some Carolina and walked a narrow boardwalk through marsh and mangrove, looking for birds, and there was nothing to think about but looking for birds in the early heat?

Angry

angry at Old Navy. angry at Best Buy. angry at Target and Home Depot. angry searching the sidewalks and storefronts of cheerful Brunwick. I want to unzip my skin and run very far from my internal organs and everything. Hoping tomorrow I feel less like an ungrateful, itchy monster.

The Discoverer

The one who brings corn, or fire, is not necesarily the most intrepid. She need only heed the call. The unknown comes in the night, from the corners of our consciousness or imagination. Some might dismiss it, roll over and go back to sleep. But if you hear, and are willing to listen, there may be adventure in your future, frought with destiny. Legends knock thrice, then expects the uninitiated to follow into dark woods without question or complaint. Are you already in the margins - you may be closer than you think to mystery and integration. Give chase to the sacred animal, the thing you thought was beyond man's grasp and commune with it, do what it asks, bring it back to the hearth circle of your brethren, whether or not you are wanted there. You are not an explorer, a shaman, or magician. You have been the wandering hermit, waiting on the word.

A Still Point Flute Player Among the Flyers

In Veracruz four voladores climb a sacred pole, behind them follows the one songmaker. Armed with nothing but colored fetters, these fearless practitioners of ritual begin their descent slowly, inverted near the top. They spin. And twist. And tumble down, controlled. They do not make the rules but perform admirably as birds fulfilling a holy rite of atonement. Their sun is a sign of unstatic stability overhead. Voladores flirt with earth, coming down from their vertical plight. While the piper, the croucher at the apex, he who sets the pace and makes holy melody remains fixed aloft, though spinning like the axis he interprets. I want to be that still voice playing.

Tir na nOg

I went, but not immediately, to the bird sanctuary. It's where I hover and eventually land in a copse of memory and desire. In the tall grasses it is restful, by the stone table, with ocassional wide wingspans blocking out the summer sun. Woods and fields are before and behind me, but I don't have to choose. I stay as long as I wish, half-slumbering, safely kept.There, I made some of the only wishes, some of which actually came true. Maybe that is why I fly there when guided to go to the most peaceful place.

Winona Ryder Getting Older, A Meditation on Mortality

Winona Ryder getting older is a reality none of us thought we'd have to confront. It's terrible, our aging whimsy and consummate mortality. She cannot bear the bright light, as we, being stricken, turn from her fallen cheeks, no longer capable of such winsome elocution. All of us, having been born unto this generation, neither lost, nor why, will quit this mortal coil as we threw off our flannel and Doc Martens. She is our herald and original. She crumbles before us, back into ashes and ether and dust. She came first and will be gone forever soon enough, as will we eventually.Winona Ryder, please don't make a return. I could not bear to see you as a wronged first wife, or editor.

Reading

Desire of the Everlasting Hills by Thomas Cahill and The Cloister Walk by Kathleen Norris. Who historical Jesus knew and how to know archetypal Jesus/yourself better through monastic living, respectively.

33 Weeks

and my bikini line is no longer accessible. it's all downhill from here.