Tense. I am always tense. My heart is ever in my throat. News. The violence people are so willing to do unto others. This chapter, which has turned my blood and flesh into an unfinished and awkward text. I keep thinking of that Rumi poem: "Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing/ and rightdoing there is a field./I'll meet you there./ When the soul lies down in that grass/the world is too full to talk about." I want to be there. But I will have to settle for the wind in my hair, long walks by the sea, the scent of roses blooming wildly. May I find shelter like the moorhen and her chick, stepping under lush green cover.





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