in which: it's true

"There are two spiritual dangers in not owning a farm.

One is supposing that breakfast comes from the 

grocery, and the other that heat comes from the furnace."

Aldo Leopold

in which: sometimes we're one, sometimes we're both

"What should I do about the wild and the tame? The wild heart that wants to be free, the tame heart that wants to come home. I want to be held. I don't want you to come too close. I want you to scoop me up and bring me home at nights. I don't want to tell you where I am. I want to keep a place among the rocks where no one can find me. I want to be with you."

Jeanette Winterson

in which: i am reminded

Exhausted.

Physically.
Emotionally.
Mentally.

In short, my dear friend and neighbor, Beth, was in an accident and has been in the hospital since Wednesday. Between two jobs and trying to be as available as I can be for the H family... I feel kind of in a fog. My body needs rest and it only comes in short spurts. When they are longer, my mind races.

Lord please give me sleep. Give Beth sweet, sweet sleep.

I have done my best to keep it together since I first heard of the accident; allowing a few tears to escape in private moments every day. Last night though... last night was like a dam breaking. My love held me and encouraged me to just let go. So I sobbed for a bit in the front yard of Beth's home. When I managed to "get a grip", he reminded me of a poem Beth gave me not to long ago about crying... http://thesoundofpsithurism.blogspot.com/2012/03/in-which-poetry.html

I laughed for a moment, thinking how ironic it was that she should happen to give me something that would later help me to get through all this regarding her. Then I fell into heaving sobs again. And again. And then a little more.

Father give me the food I need to live through today.



I gave Hastings my 2 weeks.



I am
Olli

in which: the world needs people that come alive

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living

I want to know what you ache for
and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool
for love
for your dreams
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon...
I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow
if you have been opened by life's betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your
fingers and toes
without cautioning us to
be careful
be realistic
to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.

If you can bear the accusation of betrayal

and not betray your own soul.

If you can be faithless

and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty

even when it is not pretty

every day.

And if you can source your own life

from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure

yours and mine

and still stand on the edge of the lake

and shout to the silver of the full moon,

"Yes."

It doesn't interest me

to know where you live or how much money you have.

I want to know if you can get up

after a night of grief and despair

weary and bruised to the bone

and do what needs to be done

to feed the children.

It doesn't interest me who you know

or how you came to be here.

I want to know if you will stand

in the center of the fire

with me

and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom

you have studied.

I want to know what sustains you

from the inside

when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone

with yourself

and if you truly like the company you keep

in the empty moments.

© 1995 by Oriah House, From "Dreams Of Desire"

in which: poetry

Crying

Crying only a little
bit is no use. You must cry
until your pillow is soaked!
Then you can get up and laugh.
Then you can jump in the shower
and splash-splash-splash!
Then you can throw open your window
and, "Ha ha! Ha ha!"
And if the people say, "Hey,
what's going on up there?"
"Ha ha!" sing back, "Happiness
was hiding in the last tear!
I wept it! Ha ha!"

Galway Kinnell

Thanks to Beth Hernandez so much for sharing this treasure of a poem with me! The night before she gave it to me, I was crying. And in the midst of it, detested that I couldn't just cry a little, but that it always insists on coming out blubbery and in rivers.

This poem was just what I needed.

I am
Olli