Parachute

I let my hand be the guide, the faint lines flowing from the tip of the pen, the subtle swish of sketching revealing the shadow and weight of the image emerging from the whiteness.

Like these pictures I try to string into a coherent story, I am trying to arrange new patterns of routine and paths of exploration into my 3-D life. The strangers and old friends you meet in a weekend can really save you (though the sentimental part doesn't want to admit it, afraid of needing too much).

My heart is starting to glow again, to feel the energy and stimulation of good conversation, the sharing of dreams, of uninhibited connection, of listening to personal stories as if they were adventures in a novel...except this is reality, and I am waiting for, writing into, and living along the next chapter with buzzing anticipation, fireside patience, and my Swiss-cheesy heart, the imperfections hollowing out into tunnels of discovery, the waters  of time softening the rough surface of the wound...

In blows the wind carrying scents of pain, hilarity, tenderness, and the readiness that only comes with unzipping your vulnerability, letting all your baggage fall out of the plane, and jumping without a parachute, then flying on faith.