the edges of myself

words, words, words

My 16 year old cat died this past Saturday night.  She was declining– and clearly ready to depart. I knew Thursday when she stopped eating and spent all day in the backyard under a tree that she was clear in her decision to go. I told both of my kids when they arrived home from school that …

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I’m sorting through a lot of late.  (When am I not?)  But by far the most potent thing seems to be acknowledging and letting go of the stories I tell myself.  (And I tell myself a lot of stories.)  Many of them are based in truth, or partial truth– and have some vague notion of …

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a gentle sigh, an allowance, releasing that which has held a clutching grip for longer than i can possibly fathom– the simplicity of breathing in and out, finding my breath in full– allowing the grief that i didn’t know existed to flow gently down my cheeks– making tracks through the garden dust and grime.   …

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