After the fear, the anger, even though the order seems backwards. I can see with perfect clarity certain trees of childhood, fifty years gone now, and what is this but a reminder that we never die? Pellucid sunrise.
Back to Steve Hagen, back to Ken Wilber, skimming both men happily. Slowly I begin to unload my many tchotchkes. She leans into me, I massage the small of her back, birds sing in the lilac bush nearby.
What is blue to you? Promises are a weapon, don't kid yourself, choose another way. Visiting Emily Dickinson's grave always in Fall, late October, why.
Sophia and I wander through the little shop gently arguing whether Christmas-themed fabrics count as Christian, while Fionnghuala looks for something to make new curtains for her bedroom. And now I shall let go of hot air balloons, may my tea bag of a heart no longer waste itself in tepid water. All charm is fear-based.
Ferns unravel in sunlight, dandelions go to seed. What is being threatened, truly? I polish all the colored glass in the hayloft while we talk, it calms me and I am now pro-calm.
Uninteresting arguments but why. Perhaps we should pray more in a formal way, I don't know. Imagining you jacking me off - an extension of helpfulness - both of us laughing after, cocks are so silly, sex so basic.
Oh is it time to climb Ascutney again? Beyond salvation, healing - this healing.
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