My Hands Interrupted

Death as an expression of change. The funeral of illusion is adorned with the blooming fragrance of regeneration and realignment. Spring holds a promise despite the long, hard winter of doubt and loss. Is it too soon for the electric blanket? I'm only asking because my bones tend to shatter in the cold.

In the dream, you were humming along with the music of the spheres. My hands interrupted to offer you warm, brown rice. The satisfaction gave way to the continuous stream of contentment that moves shorelines and mountains across the never-sleeping earth.

These words, a proxy. I have no more spiritual practice. No mantras or incantations. No monasteries in which to cloister. Everyday I Am exposed.

To be honest, this writing isn't saying it. Intentions count despite the mile markers pointing this way and that. Perhaps a long talk over tea or whiskey?

Apple and brussels sprouts hash; the champagne vinegar and honey make all the difference. I can be in love with food and fall and red wine and the sick bass drop that tears out my guts. And I can be in love with that which is afraid.

As the day wanders, I rinse the rice longer than necessary; to hold you in my hands is the gratitude of the immovable word. One gives thanks for dreams and the grace bestowed in belief.