The feathers collect on the small wood table, my alter. My husband brings new ones and places them there as gifts, his morning offerings. On the corner of my desk is a small statue of Mother Mary in her light blue gown and her yellow halo, her downward gaze. Budhha beside her. And the small clear glass bottle holding the heater Lucie brought from the Bronte sisters’ home. The lapis heart, the rosary in the redwood box, the stone with the old woman painted in the crevices.
I fully face the image reflected in the mirror. I am unafraid. I let go of the longing. I walk the labyrinth; one way in and one way out. I owe a great debt to the reservoir, its still waters. Her herons, egrets geese, deer, her foxes. The bird songs of the house sparrows, cardinals, robins, the mourning doves. The dogwood, elms and pines. I am moving toward the Pacific, building that highway. It is a long road but a short distance. The bright lights show the way. We say: “Dwell in Possibility. We say: “Change your aspect to the sun.” We say: God does not leave us comfortless.” We say: ” Have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves.” We say: “The body breathes itself.” We say: ” Just this… just this.”
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