Day 7

The first strand reaches me like the thin tendrils of underwater plants entwining around your ankle as you swim, or the incessant beeping suddenly morphing from an element in your dream into the piercing alarm of reality. Internally Displaced People, sisters, brothers, listen gently, I have occupied the same fate. It tugs. The forgotten is always remembered right past convenience. Those movies you were going to drop off-- at the front door, that reluctant memory of a grocery item-- as you pull unto your street, the word you were searching for all day-- just as you drift to sleep. '


What is the strand this day? A feeling passing through you like a scent hanging low in the branches of the trees you stoop under, catches unto you. It isn't as clear as it was last fall, the hunger for possession, for resting, but it is still familiar. You've carried armfuls of shadows into daylight and cleansed them in the river of acknowledgment, you've "come to terms" with. But, count them again as they gather for darkness, there are always lingering ones.  This time though its faint. A certain distrust of the delicate peace settled inside you. Can it be trusted? Can you put weight on it? This feeling of tender happiness, of softly spoken home. 


You spoke for an hour of feeling a close to the time of drudging up those memories, you've milked them of their emotional worth, you've gleamed their lessons-- and now the present smiles, enticing you to finally rest and to awaken into this deep living. Stopping the planning - the incessant need for actions to fall upon utilitarian lines, for everything to be a mechanical answer. To realize the worth of breathing, of gazing at a sunset, or stopping to honestly listen to someone, however flawed our ability to do so remains.