French Toast, Whipped Cream, Berries

Eight of us, maybe more, if you count the throats and channels our words traveled to be a part of this practice, at the table, circled as humans pushing and pulling from our ribs, experience, pain, hope, wonder. We ate, and then we wrote.

What makes you feel alive?

Love allows me a sense of life. Love gives this total, unconditional, graceful dance, even if it is uncomfortable to receive, to hold on to, accept; it allows me to sink deep into the safe of myself and the safe of other selves. Alive, as in bright, as in conscious of every breath, as in able to open my eyes and see the world for what it is, not for what I want, hope, or wish it to be, seems to teeter on the sheer existence, the audacity, the capability of love, a silvery, precise point, like a hat pin, sharp and able to slide in soft space, hole up incisions, pull together rip and splay.

What breaks your heart?

I suppose the absence of love breaks my heart, as in provides this sense of longing, this rippling of dry soil at the edge of a cliff, bit by bit, a thirsty granule, a piece of the earth falls to the foot of some dark space, some echo unknown. This heart of mine, this muscle, this web of beat and breath, of fear and fight, wonders about the persistence, the threat of a lack of love, the chance that love is somehow out of reach, is balanced at the edge of that cliff on a single blade of grass, where rain might bend that sliver of green, that wisp, under a gust of wet wind, send love tumbling…


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