Friday, 12 September 2014


Jesus was in the desert for forty days and forty nights. Theodore, my Dad, was killed at the age of forty. And for almost forty years, I have danced with words. And too, too many dark nights of eating locusts and prickly folly. This week, as I went to my classes, in this place of of study, which is as well a crucible of community, tears would not abate. The Ocean wills it so. The Trees affirm the walk with and upon and beneath the roots of song. As I write this, one early morning Crow, sings outside my window, and the rowers are being coached. In this crucible of community in which I am a scholar seeking song, via conversations, caring, research, and logos, I am morning song and grief's dervish-dancing-sibling. I am the digested myth-making that was Theodore, my Dad, and Glen, my friend, meeting. So I will write and study, here, in this community; and Sawbonna will speak, as Raven Speaks, as Crow Sings. Respect, Responsibility, Relationship, and Wonder will fill my days and my nights. Wisdom wills no forsaking.

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