A Cotton Cross

I have been advised not to give myself away so easily, a habit I formed in a neurotic attempt to please my father, no doubt. No, probably my mother in order to atone for my father. See what a mess we human beings are in?

Love is so high above us that it doesn’t become us to act like we own it or have any control over it. I used to think I was a terrible person. Now I know I am. Any love that comes to me is the most beautiful thing in the world. And any love that comes from me is quite a miracle.

I know nothing about anything but ego survival. I know how to hold onto the wreckage of my sinking ship and now my hands are claws. When the current gets strong enough, even the wreckage will be taken from me.

Does this sound pessimistic? Well, it’s Monday morning and my neck and back are in spasm, all from bending over to water a puny little plant. So I regard the day hunched over and tense. It’s cold outside, baby, and it’s not much warmer in my tense little heart.

Peter, my eternal friend, lies between the pages of our book. That makes me deeply happy. Tears are near the surface. His language was so simple and uplifting. I put a copy of it on my coffee table underneath a glass starfish and a hand-made cotton cross.

He is resting in my restlessness, comforting me in my discomfort. Friends are like that.


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