The river moves without legs and is not diluted by lovers walking downstream. Instead, it laps the impoverished feet of travelers, baptizing along the way. That is rain in October. That is the cold shroud on my birth day. That is.
I press into this day with an expectation that takes me by surprise. Love is here, like every other day. Yet, also, a childlike sense of play. . . and specialness. Mom takes me to breakfast and we talk about family, red lentil chili, and the ways in which aging bodies change aging homes.
And all day, friends send blessings and warm encouragements. My children hug me a few extra times and K. keeps checking my eyes to make sure that I know that today is distinct.
But the dog cries at my feet. She waits for the walk, but in my exclusiveness, she suffers. All threads are not included and so there is a sort of imbalance – missing notes in a song gathering towards harmony. My Libra ways tilt, and the difference changes the tune.
I'll make it back to the river tomorrow. The dog and I. But then who suffers?
the creek's threshold moving stones of broken backs and homes - take me with you