Layer after layer after layer - after the onion is gone the whole of the universe remains
blending. blurring. braiding.
being open . . . minded and hearted.
Sometimes we don't realize that we are on a journey until we stop, turn about, and see that we are in a different place. We don't realize that we have been peeling onions until we see the translucent layers piled around our feet. We don't know we have been seeking until we, ourselves, are found.
I am blessed with many blessings, and cursed with many woes. My life is messy, fractured, with ragged edges, stains and blots; but warmed by dusty sunbeams through a summer window - like a pile of unkempt laundry, clothes tangled and socks unmatched; memories in knitted booties and the souvenir t-shirt of a favoured band.
I am a writer of memories and stories . . . and a seeker of place and my relation to it.
And I have a crow that deigns to talk to me and accompanies me, tree to tree, on my morning stroll to the bus stop.