Saturday, February 29, 2020

If I breathe in slowly, and remain still, I feel your breath enter. My nostrils, the back of my throat, my chest, my belly. A cool stream, a bubbling creek.

Underneath the slowly glowing sky, by the side of a pool in the mountain, I am restless. The moon shines. I stand. I run, agitated. No more breath to feel.

Lord, which is me? The frantic one, the seated one?

Grant me ears to hear, Lord. Let me find myself. Let me be found.

(Letter #1,876)