I don't write to you like I used to. I have fallen out of time and you have not been my priority.
But also, I don't know how to write about all the stuff.
Occasionally I search you for a memory or reference or picture or song.
And once in a while you are an appealing canvas for the salty stream, the shapeless tumble that appoints language.
It rained really a lot yesterday. I was driving home when the sky broke on the windshield and all spigots gushed.
The moist constant was not helpful in my attempt to find mooring.
But today in the pause I am trying to grasp something solid.
What truths are at hand?
There is so much horror that I'm finding myself sewing a quilt buffer––not inactive, but cushioned. A quiet containment.
But also, the panic meter is swinging high.
These are not complete lists.
Neither include my shadow world––The things that trouble me about me. Sorting through this is about sorting through privilege and conditioning, wounds and longings. Distilling experience. Deciphering wrong turns. My pile of thread and rock and papyrus and rust.
And then there is the lack of sorting. A locked gate on deep growth because of fragility or fear. Because there is a shortfall in energy. Because there is an over-abundance of distraction.
Or perhaps because there is a lack of awareness that an audit is essential.
It rained really a lot yesterday.
I was at home when my heart opened in the evaporating steam and I started to sort through the saturated shale.