I’m missing you, my dear. How about a short visit, what could it hurt? How nice it would be if you walked in the door! Why not get back into your skin and come see me? We’ll catch up.
I wonder how that would work exactly. Would you return as your whole new self, or as your former?
It’s an excellent question, which I will pose tomorrow morning when I awaken. Will I open my eyes as my new self that day or drag along the usual suspects?
See? I learn so much from you and you’re not even “here.”
Don’t inform someone (whose loved one has died) about death. Don’t imply all is well or that time will heal. Don’t even be sorry.
Be with her, yes. But let death do the teaching.
Don’t assure a grieving woman her soulmate is still close. At first, she won’t believe you. Might punch you. Might send a gut-wrenching wail through your sorry bones.
Instead, let the veiled one reach. Let him touch, speak to her. Let him show he’s available, still loving. She’ll fall to her knees holding her heart and understand everything.
Nature, motherhood, death. Three teachers of deepest love.
Me in my steel contraption came upon Tiny Bird crossing the highway, not flying, but walking on bitty feet, step by step.
It must have seemed an endless journey to Tiny Bird, or he was focused elsewhere, not on the distance required to get from one side to the other. How wise.
I slowed. Prayed fast. Marveled. Sang while he walked. Isn’t it wonderful how the Universe orchestrates our perfect arrival?
Sure enough, a mighty truck wind fluffed Tiny Bird ditch-ward after his final step. Umpire yelled: Home run! Safe!
But tell me please, why (on earth) was he walking?
Two from Houston said yes to buying this house. She Googled me, found my blogs, including and said it’s everything they’ve been looking for. The Light Story
August first, me and two furries are out wandering, looking for a place to land.
A favorite would be a writer’s quiet spot (no bustling city apartment for me, people above-and-below), a safe place for 11 lb. Jackson dog to fly, cat to lord over. Cabin in the woods perhaps? Collect a couple other writers and land in a sprawling farm house full of light, peace, surrounded by animals and nature?
That could work!
Barely a bit of feathers-and-fluff, he pours his heart out tonight, steady and strong.
The wood thrush is somewhere far above me (oh, so true) and his sparkling sound falls down in sheets of white stars, spilling shakers of light over stray concerns of the day.
His shooting sprays of star-light set free the sound of cheerful confidence, vigor, a buoyant life. The luminous and uplifted collective heart.
When this spotted pile of feathers lets loose, no molecule of mine can shuffle mindlessly aside pretending to be unqualified.
After dusk, his work is done. Hearts scrubbed shiny, minds crystal clear.