Sitting on the edge.  Bobbing around in a tiny boat in the middle of a big foggy lake.  At a crossroads with no landmarks.  Making a change.  A change happening to me.

They tell me that I create my own reality, that my thoughts are seeds and in every second of my day I sow these seeds.  Many of them, with little thought and tiny feelings, are just washed away with the daily wind.  Some are rooted with continuous attention, conscious or unconscious, often subject to pulling up, checking them and ruining their chances.  And the others are firmly planted, passionately watered, constantly fed, prayed on, yet surprisingly spouted.

In the middle of a change, it’s like the early spring in a garden: the ground is plowed, rototilled, turned up and over, mulched, and fertilized (and you know what makes good fertilizer–shit and dead things).  It is muddy, it is spotted with tiny weed hair and branches, little rocks and it is a mess.  But we have sown the seeds, water the bare wet soil and have faith.  In an absolute miracle, without any applause, tiny green shoots show themselves pushing the clods of earth away and reaching for the sun.

Here I am in the mud.  Faith of the future, feeding myself as much shit as I can actually, and turning it over and over and over for the sweet air of peace to keep me soft and loose.  I pull the blanket of Her musky fragrance around me and rest in the middle of this transitory but ongoing path. 

She is ever constant and as near as the hairs on my ear when She whispers the song of love.