Lately when it comes to words and sentences, I feel bound to the consistory. They exact devastation in their surgical flow while some manage to birth an entire universe in a single word. One could die in those moments. Instead, a battered crawl, knee-to-fist unto the altar begging for life everlasting.
The pounding storm at dawn says: write!
There are two reasons I don't ride horses. It seems a form of violence to mount holiness. The other reason will have to be shared over coffee in that little cafe that offers sunrise on a slant before the day takes what it must have. We can rest our cups on the white flags of surrender. A celibate affair in acquiescence. Who couldn't use an abiding friendship about now?
Well, it's okay either way. To express one's truth is to reenter recognition – an intimate touch transcending what is believed about love. Maybe that is why this is here. A written account of enmeshment so that the author might trigger the clarity of her own vision. Christ's sight of unbroken heartship.
Zucchini bread. Caprese salad. Blueberry pancakes. Summer yields the desires born of the earth. We consume our own perfection to find the totality of Self, deliciously and wonderfully made.
At least, that's something to laugh about over the house coffee . . . leave a little room for cream, please.