the edges of myself

words, words, words

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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I just attended the funeral service for a 21 year old boy.  He was the son of a client, and also an occasional client himself.  He died a week ago in a tragic diving accident.  He was an athlete, a tennis player,  and an incredibly bright light.  He shone more brightly in his 21 years …

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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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i remembered you yesterday the boy with a smile he couldn’t hide– the childish innocence running through the lines of your face.   like uncovering an old box of records, full of songs you’d forgotten existed– but to which you know all the words.   i remembered falling softly with you– into arms that seemed they’d never …

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I spent all day in bed.  When I went to sleep last night I was flirting with a sore throat, or perhaps it was flirting with me.  In either case, I acknowledged it, dosed myself with what I had in my home remedy arsenal, and tried to settle in for a good night’s sleep.  That …

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Today you brought me soup. It was perfect, although its precision had nothing to do with the gift and everything– with the giver. Stretched out across a lazy afternoon, fingers running along the lines of your face– through your hair. my honey-coated throat– happier with you here. The sunshine poking its rays through my window …

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I’ve been moving through a lot of late.  The thing I notice about myself most notably is just how quickly I seem to be processing things these days.  What took me 12+ years just a couple of  years ago is now taking weeks, days, or sometimes just hours.  Some people might find it hard to …

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poetry because it needs to be because my heart is already dangling so far out of my chest– does it really have to have a spotlight and soundtrack to go with it?   for my own preservation of expression– i find word weaving with rhyme and rhythm allows the story to spill forth as an …

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this is for me. a necessary part of my process this singular narration a weaving of words to give birth to these feelings welling within– unnecessarily contained. The worlds of trust you are teaching with your reticence and fear are miraculous– though not without bruises and bumps– sometimes maybe even a little blood. i know …

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We are helping to heal each other you and i traversing this stretch of time, an unwieldy highway, hand in hand. Watching the layers peel away feeling lighter with each small forward step increasingly aware of the young boy peering out from underneath the years of practiced pain– contained because you knew no other way. …

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