Each night I dig these words like turnips. It is important to me to disturb the soil, reach below the surface, unearth a theme or nugget. I aim to feel relief for some burden shared, and the sense that I have told the truth. At the very least the truth of the minute I was in.

Tonight under the soil there is air. Breathing space. A proud little pocket of oxygen waiting to be of use. There are no rocks, or soil clumps, or roots. Just a sweet breeze, lingering. I feel clean, and refreshed, and a bit of a startling bright void –the way heaven is always cast.

It’s unexpected for a Monday. And all the more delightful because of it.

It’s a choice. Perhaps someone to came along and swept every concern under a carpet store worth of rugs before I even conceived of assent for the cover up. Possibly I’m blocking out any thought containing the word ‘should.’ Mayhap my guilt was given a lot of chewing gum to distract itself.

I’m not going to think about it. I’m going to savor this space I harvested, tiny bounty.


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