I envision a spiral
one I can trace with my finger, one with topography, curves and swells and switchbacks
I imagine my own travel along, away, back… revisiting from a place not quite where I was, not quite a return, always informed by my journey outward, inward, and all that I’ve encountered
I feel closer to my own truth, and farther too– knowing it but not quite being able to capture it
like light I guess
like dusk or dawn
yesterday the sky flared red for one moment as the sun rose, gray before, and gray after
my eyes happened to be open to witness it
Della too. she said, Mine. And went on to tell me a story of how the sky, that glorious red sky belonged to her.
(I wonder, as I write this, what keeps me or you or us from feeling the same– that the beauty we behold is ours, somehow. A truth beyond reproach, a certainty in a realm of obviousness, not riddled with weirdness of ownership, singularity, insufficiency, deservedness)
