from somewhere beneath the intensity of mothering a sick child, squeezing juice from a leaf of kale, and feeling left on the dock holding the rope, the questions are surfacing.

what if i never finish? deliver what was promised? to myself, to others, to the imagined almighty?

will i ever have enough air to inflate the dream? what if i don’t remember what the dream is?

what if i can’t figure it out?

what if there is nothing to figure out after all?

and why is there so much curiosity in tired pain? why does the mind repeatedly go back there, mining for more?

there must be sense to be made. or is the making of sense just another series of thoughts and rationale and restless inertia?

somewhere under this thick squeeze of questions, there has to be a plan. right?

i recognize how i separate. how the mind creates competition where there is none. anticipates conflict and judgment where there is only solidarity and a communal fear of doing it wrong.

and still i look for and savor connections, openings, longings for the shared and the safe.

at the cafe, under the covers, by the sea.

beneath the fear of fraudulence, inadequacy, and weakness–i am still here.

still looking for doorways to freedom.

imagining them lined up in a hall of mirrors, reminding me again,

that the only way out is within (and together).

It is important to say the names of who we are, the names of the places we have lived, and to write the details of our lives ~Natalie Goldberg

photos: more iphone. more instagram.