Permanently moved to http://www.walkingthewall.com, come see me over there!

I was sitting at my daughter's last soccer game of the season today covered with a stripped zig zag afghan. It has stripes of all different colors of yarns, perhaps leftovers from many other projects and its normally on my bed every night. My dear friend Liz gave me this afghan and I love it dearly. Before I took up crocheting (taught to me by this same Liz), I loved afghans and thought they were quite wonderful--but now the blanket takes on a whole other dimension. I've been sitting here tonight crocheting myself, putting in a few rows on an afghan I'm making for my brother's baby boy. He's not born yet, and my brother and sister-in-law live a world away in Mongolia. Every time I take it out, I am thinking about my brother, thinking about the baby and how much I can't wait to see what he looks like, and so forth. Nearly all of the things we wear, the things we sleep on and under, are shot out a million miles an hour by machines in a big factory and I think we loose a little something in the process--take for granted those things that should be special. I'm not finished with my little blanket yet and it already has 6000 individual stitches in it, I don't know how many hours, but 6000 stitches full of my thoughts and fears, my joys or my laughter while watching something on TV, even conversations with my brother on the phone while stitching it. And its only a little blanket, so when I think of how many stitches are in the afghan given to me by Liz, how many hours of her life are soaked into the yarn, how many hopes and fears and joys and laughter passed through her mind as the yarn passed through her fingers--it truly makes the afghan more than just a blanket, its a physical piece of meditation and I'll always cherish it.

I was at the store the other day and I saw this little fairy sleeping in a walnut shell. Cheesy some might say, and truth be told it is not something I would probably normally purchase. BUT (isn't there always a but?), this had a sense of nostalgia attached to it and I'm always a sucker for nostalgia. When I was a little girl I firmly believed in fairies. There was no ifs, ands, or buts about it. I believed that if you made them welcome, they would come. So while I didn't build a baseball field, I would build fairy houses. This was less complicated than you might assume, I would simply sit on a patch of well grown in grass and start to trim it down to the ground by hand. In this way I would weed out rooms and hallways. I collected flower petals (violets were always preferred) to leave for them to make new dresses with. But most important was the nutshell. I likely pulled the idea from images of Thumbalina sleeping in a nut shell, but whatever the influences, this was very important. My mom always kept a bowl of mixed nuts and a nutcracker around the house, and there was nothing better for a fairy house than walnut halves for beds. I'd work on my house and lay out the flower petals, arrange the walnut beds, and leave a bit of cake or cookie crumbs and sometimes a shell of milk--everyone knows fairies love this. Invariably, the next day the flower petals would be gone, the crumbs disappeared, and the milk consumed and I would smile through the rest of the day knowing I had made the fairies welcome. Oh, some might scoff, the petals blew away in the wind, and a stray cat or dog gobbled up the food and milk. As a girl I would have sighed and shook my head and felt sorry for those poor people who didn't really know, didn't really believe. As an adult, of course, I know better, and I still sigh and shake my head and feel sorry for those poor people who really don't know.

I think it is a fine and wonderful thing to walk through life and see trees, for example, and enjoy the beauty that they hold just in being trees. I think it is also--interesting--(although possibly also a sign of mental illness) to walk through life and see trees always with faces of dryads and sprites peeking out. For me, the balance comes in walking the wall and enjoying both the reality and the possibility--and that, for those who have asked, is why my domain name is www.walkingthewall.com.

Just Above

I look to a sky
once hedged by clouds;
yesterday a ceiling,
today a threshold.
I have been above them--
not wrapped in steel,
but only in sky.
There I saw a field
whose crop yielded
unending whiteness.
I know a drop of eternity
everytime I, land bound,
look to a sky of blue and white.
We share a knowing smile,
the sun and I, then go
about our business
with light in our steps,
confident that forever
isn't so far away--
it's only just above the clouds.

Kelly Bowron
9/7/04

At school today, my instructor said something that was profound to me. After explaining the gist of what the whole class would be based on: that ethos/ethics is essentially the meaning of life (what is good/bad or right/wrong)....that mythos/myth is the expression of ethos and that subsequently rites/rituals are the physical union of mythos and ethos. He noted that God is an expression of the meaning of life--that which brings meaning to life and that in some form or another, everyone believes in God. He went on to say that people ask each other, "Do you believe in God?" and then unfairly make judgments on that person based on their response. What we are really asking is, "Do you believe in God the way I believe in God" and are responding, "Yes, I believe in God the way I believe in God" or “No I don’t believe in God the way you believe in God”; but the real message is lost in the inept communication. It is symbols that give meaning to the physical, and we use symbols to express our deepest truths--but everyone's symbols are not the same. In this way, the tattoo on my sister's back of a female angel stretching her hand to the sky is no less sacred to her then a statue of Mary at the side of the church, arms stretched to the sky is to a Catholic. Each are symbols of humanity reaching to the heavens--one personal, one societal.


What this made in my brain was an "aha" moment. When I grew older and changed for a variety of reasons, I walked away from the religion that I was raised. This hurt my family as they feel that I have a) rejected them in some way, and/or b) that I have no faith/belief. But the truth I realized today is that in rejecting my religious upbringing--I am not rejecting faith or belief or truth--I have simply changed in such a way that the symbols of my youth no longer work for me. I need to find the symbols that work for me and not attempt to fit my truth to those symbols because that does a disservice to all--the proverbial fitting a round peg into a square hole (there is nothing wrong with the peg, and there is nothing wrong with a hole, they just don’t go together). I wish that my family could understand that distinction; still, there is a comfort for me in the understanding.

"Come to the edge, Life said. They said: We are afraid. Come to the edge, Life said. They came. It pushed them...and they FLEW."
-Guillaume Apollinaire 1870-1918

"I'll teach you how to jump on the wind's back, and then away we go."
-Peter Pan

"Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all."
-Helen Keller

"In a world in which we are all slaves to the laws of gravity, I'm proud to be counted as one of them freedom fighters. Skydive!"
-Unknown

"If riding in an airplane is flying, then riding in a boat is swimming. If you want to experience the element, then get out of the vehicle."
-Unknown

"And once you have tasted flight, you will walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been and there you long to return." --unknown

At different places in our lives we take a step that moves us outside the boundaries of our ordinary life--and we stretch. Like a snake, we grow, and with the growth we lose something as well--illusions, misconceptions, sometimes even small bits of freedom. I have had, as has everyone, moments of stretching as well.

The first was when I went to Africa at 18. I was young, sheltered, and naive. I went thinking I would look at the people I encountered with pity and perhaps give them some small measure of hope. Instead I discarded those misconceptions rather quickly as I found a world categorically different, yet full of people I respected and learned from. I learned that the world was much bigger than I could ever imagine; even more importantly, I learned that "different" is not a synonym for lesser.

When my son was born and sick for so long, I learned a lot about life and death and I stretched again. I perhaps paid a dearer price for that growth--I paid out in belief and securities but was repaid with an acceptance of death as a process of life. I learned that someone walking and breathing wasn't necessarily living and that death isn't necessarily a thief.

Much of my seperation from my husband was negative: negative acts and negative words that couldn't be taken back. Despite the high cost, this was also a time when I stepped off the wide, worn path my life had gone on and discovered a powerful word--choice. I learned that everything in life is a choice (not always in what happens, but always in how I react)--whether concious or otherwise, life is a choice; and whatever paths my life would go on from then on, would be by my own choice. Big stretch!

What does any of this have to do with flight--or skydiving? Looking at the sky while walking to class tonight, I thought of this quote and I had the same sense of having stretched once more. I needed this reminder. Life is bigger than my immediate surroundings I had learned from Africa--certainly the sky is bigger than the ground around me! Living fully is more important than fearing death, I had learned from Michael--embrace life...or the open sky, LOL! And I had learned that life is a choice...LIFE is a choice...so is going to the edge of a plane door and diving out of it (although with a very large Australian jump master strapped to your back, the choice is perhaps questionable at that last moment ;)) "I will never see the sky, the same way..."sings Vanessa Carlton, and I never will because it will be a unending reminder to live fully.



PS-And yes, Ralph, I know I am the worlds largest corndog, LOL!

I jumped out of a perfectly good airplane today. The sky was the most amazing blue with a field of perfectly white clouds going out across to the horizon...so at 13,000 feet...I jumped. The whole experience was surreal, but, for me, that intial exit from the plane was....incredible. Trying to describe it all leaves me somehow stuck on two words...amazing and incredible. Do you remember as a kid doing the "Nestea plunge" into the pool? To my cousins and I, that meant being up on the diving board, back to the water, eyes closed...and just falling. Well, falling out of an airplane at 13,000 feet felt much the same way...just bigger. Not to mention my eyes weren't closed and the ground look very very far away. I plan to write more about it tomorrow, but for tonight, all I can think about are the words to the song they superimposed on my video recording my jump:

I took a walk around the world
to ease my troubled mind
I left my body laying
somewhere in the sands of time
I watched the world float
to the dark side of the moon
I feel there is nothing I can do, yeah

I watched the world float
to the dark side of the moon
After all I knew it had to be
something to do with you
I really don't mind what happens now and then
As long as you'll be my friend at the end

If I go crazy then will you still call me Superman
If I'm alive and well, will you be there holding my hand
I'll keep you by my side with my superhuman might
Kryptonite


Thank you, Denise, for sharing this incredibly amazing experience with me.

Children are the most amazing little people. Time and time again I have seen the strength of children--they have so much to teach us. David Tippin was lost and on his own at four years old for more than 48 hours, interviewed leaving the hospital, he simply grinned and ate up the attention of the press who were inanely trying to have a formal interview with a four year old. We don't see too many happily ever afters on television, and even in life it seems sometimes, this was a happily ever after--we need to hoard these moments like the gold they are.

If one wishes for good, Heaven will help. --Chinese proverb.

Connections. Sometimes it seems that the connections between people today are such thin and fragile things...and then something happens and you see that the connection are not as tenuous as you thought--that they can, in fact, but strong indeed.

Sunday a woman from my stitching board's 4.5 year old son got out of the house while his parents were sleeping--every parent's nightmare, one I have had so many times given my daughter's sleep walking tendency. I have been nauseous for this family since I first read of it Monday morning. I cannot even begin to imagine the whole torrent of emotions that must be exhausting this family. You can read Stacey's plea for prayers here:

http://perlemoon.blogspot.com/

Anyone who has read my blog at all knows that my relationship with religion is strained, however I have no doubt whatsoever in the power of prayer and concerted well-wishing and postive thoughts/vibes/energy. There is great strength to be found in a large number of people all focused on the same goal. All across the globe, literally, people are focusing their prayers, thoughts, and energy on this one little boy. I wish him a good sleep, wherever he may be, I wish him no fear, I wish a cloud of peace and protection surrounding him, I wish him the sense of grand adventure that brought him to where he is to continue so that when his family finds him, he thinks its just the end of his hero's journey home, I wish him safe, I wish him home soon, I wish his parents and family and friends strength and small spaces to breathe, I wish his parents and family and friends small moments of rest to keep their strength, I wish for them hope, I wish for them joy in the finding of him quickly.

Its late and the house is completely silent and as I'm getting up to go take a divinely hot bath, I can hear a train in the distance. There are train tracks about a mile away from the house, they are back off the main roads and so I never even know they are there--except at night when the house is so quiet and the trains roll through. My mother grew up in a small fishing town off of Lake Erie in Ohio. Its about an hour and a half from where I grew up, and nearly every weekend (literally) of my young life we went and spent in that little town with my grandparents. We even lived there for a year or so when I was four or five. There are train tracks right behind St. Mary's Catholic church which is just a few houses from my grandparents. Nights spent there are always punctuated with the sounds of the trains blowing through. My great-grandmother, so my grandmother has told me innumerable times in my life, stood too close to the train tracks when she was young and had all the toes on her right foot sliced right off! As you can imagine, this favorite tale was always accompanied with stern warnings to stay off the tracks. I know that some portion of it is true as she really did loose her toes to the train tracks...but how it actually happened has been lost in this little myth of our family. "HOW could she stand so close to the train tracks that just her toes got cut off," the cousins whispered to each other when we heard the trains at night and were suppose to be sleeping. "If she was standing that close, don't you think she would have been squashed, doesn't the box of the train overlap the tracks??" I cannot imagine how often this story has been told, first to my mother and her 8 siblings and then to all the cousins that have come since, I can't walk across the tracks even today, or listen to the train run the rails in quiet of my own home, without thinking about great-grandma and how her toes got sliced off from standing too close to the tracks.

There is a ballad that I collect versions of, about Thomas Rhymer, or True Tom, or Thomas de Erceldone. Thomas was a man who really existed who was said to have disappeared for seven years into the realm of faery when he caught the eye of an elven queen. When he returned, he was "gifted" with a tongue that could only tell truth. To a bard, this was a difficult gift, one that could bring more trouble than it was worth. There are still some of his prophecies in some very old books. The ballad can be read here:

http://www.bartleby.com/101/367.html

My favorite three stanzas are:

'O see ye not yon narrow road,
So thick beset wi' thorns and briers?
That is the Path of Righteousness,
Though after it but few inquires.

'And see ye not yon braid, braid road, 45
That lies across the lily leven?
That is the Path of Wickedness,
Though some call it the Road to Heaven.

'And see ye not yon bonny road
That winds about the fernie brae? 50
That is the Road to fair Elfland,
Where thou and I this night maun gae.

I love them because they open up a third possiblity (and the third possibility is always the most mysterious)...our society tends to have an "either or" mentality...things are black and white, moral or immoral, conservative or liberal, bad or good...clearly defined options. In this poem, the writer suggest there is not just a choice of heaven or hell, but for the lucky, perhaps a third choice to fair Elfland. Anyway, I've always enjoyed playing with the old ballad format because it is so fun to write. While some might scorn the cadence and mis-structure to aid in a set rhyme scheme, I find them a treat now and then. So here was my addition to the ballad, my twist on the True Tom/ Tam Lin story:

Ballad of Aileen
4/22/00

Her hair was long with raven curls,
Her eyes were emerald green;
Her form was lithe with supple grace
As ever eyes had seen.

With heart and hand she pledged her troth,
A gentle man was he,
To one who loved her spirit more
Than that which eyes could see.

One eve while walking in the wood,
An elven lord she met;
He slipped out from a stand of trees
Just as the sun had set.

Sea foam washed his eyes pale blue,
And sunlight graced his hair;
His voice, like music, called her name;
His hand reached out to her.

When years spent searching near and far
Had passed her husband by,
She walked out of the woods one day
Just as the sun rose high.

Her raven curls were blacker yet,
Her eyes were painful bright,
Her skin, now pale as milky pearls,
Shone with a fevered light.

Without a question or a word
He took her home once more,
And through the years she loved him well,
And the daughters that she bore.

Some nights she heard the Hunter’s horns,
And hoof beats all around;
While other nights the music called
As she danced on moonlit ground.

Eyes too bright, and hair undone
She’d wander in at dawn;
Her daughters braided up her hair
And tied her apron on.

When many years had passed her by,
And raven locks had grayed,
She’d tend the grave with flowers bright
Where now her husband laid.

One eve while walking in the wood,
She met her elven lord,
Once more she took his outstretched hand
And cut her earthen cord.

Her daughters heard the music not,
Nor the laughter in the air,
As they smoothed her dress for burial
And braided up her hair.

I planted a new miniature rose bush in front of my house a couple days ago and this morning I had a gorgeous, sweet, coral rose--perfect in its smallness. I was thinking about it today, staying on the lines of small moments being just as important as large ones, and I realized a few things:

I went to Disney Land as a young child, I have vague memories of it, but I have a brilliant colored memory of sitting in a laundry basket of clothes with my grandfather smiling down at me from the same trip. He died when I was very young. The Peter Pan ride, Mickey Mouse marching down the avenue, Cinderella and her sewing mouses, none of those stayed--just my grandfather smiling.

I used to go on vacation with my aunt alot, to cottages, camping, etc. One moment always sticks out when I think of it, driving in her bus turned camper, listening and singing to an 8 track tape of the Chipmunks.

We camped up and down the coast of Florida as a young child for 6 weeks, part of it during hurricane weather...I only remember all of us tumbling out of the tent screaming and laughing--a small mouse had gotten in and was running around and around.

I remember dancing around in the rain in the middle of the flooded streets of our apartment complex...

I remember standing on a chair in my bedroom with my best friend in gradeschool singing "The do run run run, the do run run" into a hair brush...

I remember my grandpa sticking his false teeth through the branches of a bush and scaring us on halloween...

I remember solomnly walking down the steps of my grandma's house taking communion of squashed bread and juice from my young aunt...

I remember looking at my dad's disgusting toenails (had some kind of fungal problem) while lying on the floor listening to "The Hobbit"...

I remember filling my cousin, Jennifer's, pretty play house full of stinkweed with my cousins (her brothers)...

I remember reading "Peter and the Wolf" to my brother Craig so many times that I had it memorized...

I remember sleeping with my sister Joanna in her crib...I was 17...

I remember my mom pushing all the furniture to the walls in our apartment while we roller skated through on the hard wood floors...

So many many memories...but funnily enough...they're small ones...out of so many memories, so many larger, more grand memories...what makes them stick out?

"I was married for 22 months, and it was enough to fill a lifetime"...says Aida's father in the movie Cold Mountain. Little moments, the shape of a neck, one kiss, a half smile, words not said, all become a bag full of diamonds for Inman, diamonds that help combat the horrors of war. I have wasted so many moments in my life. I too have a treasure full of moments, some are large moments, some are small moments, but their size is no relation to their value. I learned a very valuable lesson at 18 years old, and it was a lesson that was reinforced at 21--every moment counts...live one day at a time...there is no yesterday, there is no tomorrow, there is only today. But I forget it sometimes, I've forgotten it for a good long time. Today's society is so fast paced, so rush rush, busy busy, move move...moments are spent like pennies in a penny candy store. We spend spend spend and rationalize that we are spending the small moments for the big pay off; we'll rush through this year and work work work so we can take a week and go to Cancun and that "big" moment will be worth all the small moments lost. Can a moment be enough for a lifetime. If yes, why do we waste them?

I have been reading random blogs in the last few days and have been struck by what I have found. Loosely quoting from the same movie as inspired the last entry (Meet Joe Black) a woman dying tells Death (who has pronounced himself lonely) that we are all, down here, lonely--and the best we can hope for is to get a few nice pictures (memories) to take with us.

What I have heard from these blogs is an inate sense of loneliness and a longing for connection. The draw of a blog for some people, I believe, is simply to be heard. A board I frequent had a task posed...write 10 random facts or insights about yourself. It was a great exercise and I learned many interesting things about people. Even more fascinating though was who was responding. People who rarely post along with the more active members. If a person frequents a large board and rarely participates--what is it about that exercise that would draw them out? They are, many of them, shy people--so why respond to something so personal? We all like to talk about ourselves, my friend said--very true, and even further--we all long to be heard. We want someone to say, "I hear you, and on some level I connect to what you are saying or feeling."

This is made even more intriguing in a world with so much connectivity--global news, telephones, fax machines, email, boards, instant messaging--and yet we are still all inherently lonely people looking for a few good pictures to take with us when we go.

No regrets. I watched a movie tonight and knowing that he was dying, a father's most important piece of advice to his daughter was that she live her life with no regrets.

I feel the same way, the same sense of importance to not having regrets. What does it really mean, though, to have no regrets? A regret, according to The American Heritage Dictionary:

--re·gret n. 1. A sense of loss and longing for someone or something gone. 2. A feeling of disappointment or distress about something that one wishes could be different. 3. regrets. A courteous expression of regret, especially at having to decline an invitation. [Middle English regretten, to lament, from Old French regreter : re-, re- + -greter, to weep (perhaps of Germanic origin).]

Whenever I take a multiple choice test I always first rule out the answer that most obviously doesn't fit, so certainly for the sake of this musing I can rule out the third meaning, which leaves two. I cannot say that I have no regret in the sense of loss and/or longing for someone or something gone...I would more directly define that as nostalgia. I can look back on certain segments of my life and feel a wish to return to, for example, a time before so many illusions were lost...but its a momentary regret because I'd never truly wish to be that person again. I can also look back on certain people that have imprinted themselves on my life and, for one reason or another, are no longer a part of my present life, and feel a strong sense of regret in the form of loss and longing. Still, the impact they have had, and continue to have, on my life is no less because their connection was in the past. We all have paths to take in this life and sometimes people's paths cross for a moment, sometimes they merge for a time then split off, but the imprint is there forever. So while I long for the sense of connection, I never regret, in the sense of disappointment or distress, that they were part of my life for however long. That leaves me with number 2, the regret that is disappointment or distress about something that one wishes could be different...that is the stickler, the one that serves no purpose, that has no place in my life. I love threes, I love the number three, I love the sense of completion in threes and the sense of balance with threes...so certainly my "mantra" is a triad: I cannot change the past, I cannot predict the future, I can only live today. No regrets.

I'm still alive, life just got a little busy, I'll be back soon...or as Christopher Robin said:

GON OUT
BACKSON
BISY
BACKSON

I sludged my way through "Lost in Interpretation" tonight, and I think the movie was worth the sloooow progress through. I have certainly felt that feeling of walking through days where no one was speaking my language and I am lost in my own backyard--feelings this movie evokes. But the final scene that gives importance to the "could have beens--makes the movie. Have you ever met someone at the wrong time and place? You know without question that had your life different you would have had a profound relationship. Or perhaps the profound relationship was in another life and you are simply feeling the echoes of it? I've had moments like that a few times and it can feel like your body hit a solid surface but your heart just kept moving out of your chest when it was time to walk away. I'm not talking simply about love either, but friendships also that are just belonging on a path that you can't walk. There is an erie juxtaposition of sadness with a sense of coming home--if only for a brief moment.

"There never seemed to be to her much difference between joy and pain, or between sad and pleasant things. They were all equally welcome to her, as if in her heart she knew them to be the same." ("The Dreamers" by Isak Dinesen)

While some might argue that the character Pellegrina is tragic, or even crazy...there is a profoundness to her character such that she lingers along with you long after you have closed the last page on her story. People like to categorize experiences as good or bad, positive or negative--every one neatly in its box in line with how we think it has affected our lives. I, however, must agree with Pellegrina on this one--there really isn't any difference between joy and pain. Each experience adds something to our lives, makes us think, makes us reevaluate, change paths, reinforce a path, teaches something..."If you could go back and change one thing, what would it be?" Such a classic question. It receives a resounding "nothing" from me! There is no way to untangle valuable lessons learned from past experience, no way to know what seemingly negative experience was truly a positive in the long run, no possible way of knowing what was worse around the corner not taken. Polarized thinking seems so strongly entrenched in the Western mind set, everything is either/or, black/white, bad/good, positive/negative...there is no room left for the notion that things aren't just either/or, but sometimes both, or something smack in the middle of the two, or sometimes simply unclassifiable. One day at a time, one experience at a time...arms wide open, like Pellegrina who faced life and death with arms wide.

"In the mild air of spring they were singing cheerfully, sweetly, as though to keep her company on the first morning of her life that she, Omakayas, knew the truth of her past. She was the girl from Spirit Island. She lived in a birchbark house. This was the first day of the journey on which she would find out the truth of her future, who she was." from The Birchbark House by Louise Erdrich

This book is a story of many many things, but what struck me particularily is the vision of our life not being straight lines from birth to death, or birth to any point in between--but that life is circular. It rolls back on itself in a way that is facinating. It also touches what has long interested me, and that is personal myth. We all have personal stories, experiences that happened to us that are at the core of who we are. Omakayas had a story that she didn't know and yet much of her life moved from that story forward, that circled back again and again until she finally learned the truth of her story. From that day she moved forward to find out what the rest of the story of her would be. These moments that are woven into our being are very important and I like to think of them as touchstone moments. When Old Tallow told Omakayas the story of how she came to be a two year old alone on an island of dead people--her entire life wiped out by small pox and her left to lay by her dead mother--her soul remembered even though her mind didn't. Later in her life, she met with smallpox yet again when a man entered the village of her new family. Erdrich writes, "What happened changed the way Omakayas and her family lived from them on. A visitor entered." We have all had those moments that changed our lives in far reaching ways. I can think of any number of them...my trip to Africa and subsequent bout with Malaria, the birth of my son and the long road of his illness, the birth of my daughter and the lessons of relearning joy she taught me, the crossroads that determined the course of my marriage and my family, walking into the emergancy room and seeing my husband after falling and breaking his back...these moments were moments that either at the time, or later, I could look back and know that my life took a different path than it was running on.

I know this has been an incoherent babble, but the gist of the matter that I have been mulling is that time is circular and that moments in our life are life changing and make up our personal stories, and that it is important to come to terms with life changing moments because you will retouch on them over and over in your life in ways and times you least expect.

Wow, it has been a very long time since I have written in my blog, after catching up on Perle Moon, it has reminded me how much I enjoyed writing on this blog, so I'm going to get back into writing in it more often.

To get started and hold it over until tonight when I can write more, here is my latest poem:
Walking the Wall
1/13/2004

Inbetween
Words
are silences that speak
stronger then
their frames

Inbetween
Times
are spaces that ache--
memories more alive
than reality

Inbetween
Days
are dreams that live
more potent
then waking moments

Inbetween
Places
are veils that shift--
borders where dreams
wait for night

Speak silences
Remember
Live dreams
Walk the wall