Restless nights. Something wants to come free. It can’t. There is writing to do. The stories, not mine.
Tonight I am holding hands with a friend far away, in the midst of the most uninsulated bravery, and waiting, waiting. All glamour removed. Interminable, excruciating.
And here too, unrest. Waiting for seeds, carefully planted, to push through. No hurry, no hustle; no way to fill the spaciousness.
These moments between, hard to savor. A vigil. Tending the erratic, the luminous, the dissonant; holding lightly the fear, the hope, the grief.
This too shall pass, and there’s nowhere else to be.