Come walk with me

Come walk with me among the stones and trees, away from the distractions and we will reflect on what truly matters. . . .

Friday, February 27, 2015

At Some Point

At some point, you simply become weary of grieving. It is boring.

You are open to new experiences: throwing rocks, throwing plates, throwing fast, throwing out, throwing up. Something must break, something must give, something must go. It must be this gluttonous grief--all consuming, all knowing, all in.

It has to go.

Thursday, February 26, 2015

The Heart of Nothing

The universe equals zero. Nothing. I heard so on NPR.

If you pull up the four corners of the universe like a quilt, it equals zero. Zero. Nothing.

It makes sense.

Trivial. Of little consequence. No thing. Not anything. Nonexistent.

A thing that does not exist.

Like a wife or a lover.

Once the universe, but pulled up like a quilt, she is nothing.

So what becomes of the Nile and Niagara Falls? Where does the rain forest go? What of Mount McKinley? London? Are the red, double-decker buses still running? Is the hungover saxophonist still wailing on Bourbon Street? Are the pilgrims buying carved cedar souvenirs in Bethlehem?

The heart of nothing is everything-all that is, all that was, all that will be.

Absolute zero-- throbbing, whole, full.

Thursday, February 19, 2015


This is our routine:

I fall asleep on the love seat watching TV. The chocolate-point Siamese curls up to sleep on top of my legs. He is heavy and I am reluctant to make him move when I wake up a couple of hours later to get into bed.

It is a four-poster bed with heavy cover. It is not the crocheted bedspread Granny made, but it is the same, from an estate sale years ago. Thick twine, once white, now aged, torn in a couple of places, a small stain, a small accident, a mistake made decades ago. The cotton weight is comforting. The cat follows, jumps to the cedar chest and up onto the bed. Sometime in the night, he prowls. Sometimes I hear him crying or conversations he has with the aloof black female, Athena.

In time past he would jump to the bed and look in our faces. He would find my husband and curl on top of him.  The cat always chose him.

The pink dawn barely seeps through the sheer curtains. The cat always rises first, makes his rounds, and returns to bed. He walks up to my face and I raise the cover so that he can snuggle next to me. He purrs, against my body, grateful for the warmth.

Even if it is just me.