I am too much about myself

Maybe I feel most alive when I can taste the “not yet” part of being human, when I can get inside my soul and wrestle specters like they’re real — like their teeth are tangible so that believing they can be beaten means something more than an abstract run-on sentence.

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the bravery of a small life

I can see her eyelashes, all of them, when she says that last word. We heave breaths together, sweat mingled on all the arms. Yes, sweet girl. When there is ugly anger inside us it is incredibly hard to be kind. Almost, even impossible. She ducks into my skin, curls up and whispers, "I'm jealous." I know, I say. And I hold them both like two wiggly fish on my lap on the floor in front of all the front windows.

It is broken to be human and it is human to be broken.

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oh, this Love that will not let me go

Her legs dangle down to my knees. I catch my breath, from both her weight and her new dangling reach. I guess I never thought her limbs would get this long, never thought her body would stretch out of the folded-up position under my chin. I never thought kissing that precious spot on the bridge of her nose would be a rare treat.

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so clinging near

"I love you and I want you to come here and I don't want you to die," she said, "write that to her." I filtered. I decided it wasn't the kind of uplifting message we wanted to communicate to Zella's library teacher, Miss Lisa. But as her crazy, fly-away (three day old) top knot bounced with her squealing excitement to deliver the message, I knew I would have to tell Miss Lisa the whole thing. Zella does not want her to die and that is a wonderful thing to want for a person. A beautiful and pure and human thing to want for a person.

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I am still the same amount of weak

I have tried to conquer weakness all my life. At times in small, subtle ways and at other times with great flair and volume. Something about the daily lectionary reigns over my whitewashed importance and anchors me in a Strength I will never attain. It is slow, steady work that calmly lives inside the liturgical year - absent any flourish or marketing savvy and present a faithful plodding toward the most important Easter season.

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Ordinary Time

Yesterday, I was bad at being alive. I transmorphed after those early, solitary moments of apartment sunshine into a turtle snail, a snurtle... or something that could escape inside itself without explanation. Except that I was in almost constant motion - in my mind and with my hands. I jostled household chores early and made plans for midday, but everything played like a private concert of dischord - all the notes were wrong and only I could hear the sound. 

I guess that was death - the awkward and cold angles of it - keeping me aware of my mortality and making me a human I did not recognize.

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