I missed this space in virtual time.  The last four days have been spent finding the kiss inside of me reflected in the miracle faces of hundreds and hundreds of women.  Each of us had died but didn’t leave.  We have been transformed–most of which was despite our kicking and screaming and crying despair.  The earth has kept its sweet hold on us and we have found the bliss of love in the now.

Being me should not be a struggle.  Being me should be easy as the poplar tree: I get the best nourishment, excellent light, sweet air and the passion of seasonal change.  Yet this moving thinking human merely being finds the sharpest shadows in the brightest sun.

The path says: There is always mud before spring green–silly human.  Millions of bare branches giggle and wave at me: Green is guaranteed!  Everything dead is a seed; all flowers yield to fruit.  Bare is the open elbow space for tight rock seeds to burst and sweet love to nest in birthing.

I am a timeless suspension of love and now.