Opened to that blank page….thinking of some kind of map, or diagram. Sat staring. Put the pencil to the paper and began the
HAND. When i draw these things i have to put my hand or body or face in place, then i touch my self, feel myself to try to know how to draw. I held my hand. This way. Because it was the gesture that CAME. STOP. STOP. i'll continue to try to get it right…palm is outward. Hand is relaxed but firm. STOP.
it was the gesture that came from waking to the world this mornng. Making tea, opening the "News". and even, beloved NPR…there was NO GOOD NEWS. NONE. Even NPR.
So much antagonism, commotion, adversity, division. Which is how it IS now….as we try, i guess, try to make other Ways…but for me…looking at the bag i drag in the First Post….i asked this morning….What's in that bag? And the answer was surprising ……Junk. Crap. and none of it mine. I remembered a book i once had about ritual. The one that has stayed, held…when you are caught in some kind on web, some kind of confusion…unfamiliar….not Yours……to feel. Where is the strand , the fiber….where is it attached to you….often your wrist…it's Under…..that cord…..attached there and you loosen it, undo it and hold it Out, saying…..Here. I believe this belongs to you.
so i Uncord. I hold the fiber out. Here. I believe this belongs to you…the world….the Confusion. Here. I will continue to Live as best i know how. I will continue to stay aware of the multiple x a zillion complexities. But in my Day. Here. I will uncord. I will declare that i belong to this Hill. To the Trees, the Mycelium , the lizards and skinks, the bees, birds Goats, chicken and cat…Dog, People, Garden and on and on and on i declare. I lift my hand and say STOP. this junk isn't mine. i won't haul it anymore. Done. STOP.
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windthread 
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