The Neighbor made the mistake of phoning me Saturday morning to inquire after my being. Some half hour later, following a guided tour of the concentric rings of hell currently forming my universe, we hung up. I am sorry Neighbor.
It is that way with friends. From concern they ask, from my vivid response, I regret.
The ground these days shifts and slips easily. Ambiguity, the breaker and maker of souls, a constant companion. The Blast Zone nurtured by X, ever-present.
Later Saturday, making escape by car, a glance captured the Neighbor, absorbed, improving her garden. For the briefest of moments I understood the illusory nature of ground – even the firm looking stuff.
Ground does not uphold life, it is a felt web of connectivity, pulsing points – agents, friends – that supports this world. Swinging over a precarious landscape its pattern forms anew when damaged, pathways renewed by those who remember, even when I do not. Steely strength in seemingly fragile threads, the calls, the cards, the quiet help from the background.
That web, that many-colored tapestry, I suspect, is both the answer and the secret reason for my travails. New patterns, unfolding, no matter where you go, there you are.
To the many points of my web – the Neighbor, the Great Old Friend, Gal Pals, the Systems Wizard, the Mentor, the Artist, the World-at-Large, the Cosmos – some of you do not read this bog, but I appreciate you nonetheless. And to the faithful Writer…who gathered the energy of others dear to me in a place called Brattleboro…I will never forget that kindness. My heartfelt gratitude to all and my apologies for the tears and trauma.
