Time is getting all fuzzy and strange again.
I think in part it has to do with the weather, which has been unable to decide if it is finally Spring or still Winter: sudden deep snow weighing down the newly-leaved branches; sudden sun melting it all.
I still careen between calling congressmen, sending letters, limiting donations; then closing it all up and going to the back study, where the printouts of these pages sit in large three-ring binders, waiting for me to have the courage to re-enter them seriously.
I did it today.
I begin to see, as I read the pages from the first year, there has been a shape and rhythm of the tides that have been carrying me.
What feels so difficult now---and is so hard to describe--- is the sense of being suspended: finding myself in a place where the tides of past, present and future are colliding all around me, each pulling at me in a different way; but I, I can barely move. Nor do I know where to go.
The only things that are very clear are that I need to read these pages, all of them, however intense or (worse) however banal; and let them flow through me, with faith that I will begin to perceive the shape and flow of the tides that have carried me this far; that I need to continue writing and singing; that I need to walk more often in the Open Space, perhaps earlier in the morning so that I might meet more of the animals whose home it is. That I continue to let myself cry when the tears rise. That I continue to respectfully invite or tease out the parts of me that quietly retired and hid during my years with my beloved---yes, there was that too. I must do that so that the other parts of me, the ones that emerged and grew while we were together, will not recede and hide themselves too.
Strange, as I am searching for my path: I am searching for two of my favorite and most precious garments as well, one hand-dyed, one hand-woven, that have inexplicably gone missing from---or in---my closet. Both are associated with particular times and events with Zalman. Their disappearance makes no sense, and feels like a loss of parts of me. (I have worn each of them in performance, in teaching, for occasions in which I have been intensely present, both alone and with my love.) The few who have keys to the house are people I trust. The garments themselves are unique and beautiful; but, more, they carry memory.
I have just fallen asleep at the keyboard. I will take that message seriously. Good night!