With her hair down - playing Joan of Arc - her intensity owned a sexuality that even she could not have mistaken. One can appreciate without indulging the inclination to see in terms of spiritual warfare. One walks and - late but not too late - is accompanied.
In my dream I resisted conversion, though I much admired the wooden beams by which the structure was supported. Yes is the necessary gift and cannot be taken back. We write the role and play it.
She went to the window to confirm it was tuberculosis. At certain critical times nobody held me. Yet we cannot see the end to which our works are put and there is peace in that if we are ready.
Cold tea and apples after the sun has risen and the novel - again - has stalled. A young girl carried bread on the boat and fifty years later we still talk about it. Doubt fuels our passage down the narrow lanes.
The river of light in the distance, the trail that reaches its banks familiar. We sat to eat, we bowed our heads in prayer and when at last we looked up, well-fed mice were dancing on our plates. What I am saying is, when you are there and it's time to leap, maps are no longer helpful.
One descends to the relative minor, one can live a long time in a melody constructed there. What we are in truth can never die. One fears the final edit.
Rocks are speaking now and bluebirds pause in the air before me. Thank you sister for reminding me the little way is all there is.
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