Shadow’s Heart

“I’ll take your heart. We’ll need it later,” and she reached her hand deep inside his chest, and she pulled it out with something ruby and pulsing held between her sharp fingernails. It was the color of pigeon’s blood, and it was made of pure light. Rhythmically it expanded and contracted.

-Neil Gaiman, “American Gods”

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Seeing. Grounded

My roots extend from the heels, from the fronts of the feet, through the mat, through the floor boards, through the concrete foundation, through the dirt, through the bedrock, through the crust, through the mantle, all the way to the hot molten core at the center of the Earth.  The Earth’s gravity pulls me down.  With equal force, I pull it back up, through the roots, through the heels, through the tailbone, through the back of the heart.

Dr. Eric directs us to open the eyes to a soft gaze and begin to move around the room, roots and all.  Continue reading “Seeing. Grounded”

Mondays

There may be a day some time in the future when I no longer care about you.   The familiar feeling of your embrace would be like a memory of a good book I’ve read, or a movie I’ve seen.  Like a memory of my hand in David’s in the Azalea Garden, in June of 2007.  So what if I remember the month and year, I am good with calendars, that’s all.  It might have been May, too.  When do the azaleas bloom?  It was a Tuesday.

About you, I’ll remember there were Mondays. Continue reading “Mondays”