whole again

i'm not sure how we come into this world, whole and then we fragment, or fragmented and then we find our missing parts and become whole. but i'm feeling a wholeness i've never felt before. a fullness of being. a completion is at hand. and it is good.

does it change anything? not really.

and yet, it changes everything.

a whole woman can deal with any hand she's dealt.
a whole woman can gift completion to others.

i think that is what it amounts to, unless
we take all our fragmented selves and give to each other
from our brokenness. making mosaics along the way.

i've so many intricate patterns in this broken life of mine
patterns i would not change. subtle hues and veining cracks
tenderly overlaid with solter, and something comes of it.

there is no brokenness that goes ...

what is the word i'm looking for,
that goes, unnoticed, while that is certainly true, that is not the whole truth.

untended, is that even a word? perhaps, but i know a few who would rather kill than let you dress their festing wounds. i have been one of those wounded dogs, biting the hand that would stretch out in kindness.

unaided, this is better, still a ramshackle word which doesn't get where i'm going
but one that shows the direction i'm headed and i guess that is the best language can do.

give you an inkling of where i'm bounding off to.

though i often don't know myself.

i went to paint a cup today. spur of the moment. after eating in that luncheonette i wanted to eat in, in small town america. i'm roaming the streets of goshen, ny for the next couple days while my daughter rides horses. i don't mind. it's been a long time since i've been alone and not fallen apart. a long time since i could sit up right and not dissolve into a pool of tears. wholeness.

so i have this idea that i'm going to throw pottery, but in this makeshift life, we do the best we can with what we've got. so i end up, painting a ceramic cup. a giant one, the kind i like to drink out of every morning.

one way the women of the pueblos would communicate or send messages was to paint them into or on pots. the hidden bowl of the vessel concealing the heart of the matter. and being that i'm not inclined to hiding, i painted my vessel and then wrote important words over the top of it.

words matter.

don't let anyone tell you they don't.

walk in beauty

it can't rain always

courage

strength

trust

believe

laugh more

yes

because it's all about what we tell ourselves. the line we sell ourselves. am i going to make it out of this pit? certainly. never had any doubt i wouldn't (wow, the negatives in that sentence are mindbending). but here i am now, not in the quagmire of grief i once was, my whole future laid out before me, what will i do? which way will i go?

what does your heart desire?

it's been a long time since anyone has asked me that question. time i start asking myself. as i was painting, i was seeing myself at dodge. there ain't nothing like it.

we've (the attendees of the event) decided aesthetic location is of more import than relative comfort and ease of getting from one spot to another. tents and sometimes muddy walkways are a necessary evil, overflowing main stage tents, and the beauty of nature all are part of the deal. it will be at lovely waterloo village again this year and i can't wait to be there. with my daughter by my side. who will i meet, who will i hear, what will the journey be like?

i've driven that road i launched my car off of last year, and it's interesting how in the heat of the moment such an event makes an everest out of a tiny offramp. but it felt like i flew forever. and considering it was potentially a lifeending fiasco, i'm just grateful to still be here.

gratitude. that's a word i forgot. but one need not be reminded of that which is their essence.

i meant to thank all those dear souls who helped me through this year, you know who you are. if you come here and see these words, know that i am grateful in part because of you. i am rich beyond wealth, and simply, unutterably, grateful.

peace.