Practice

I feel better when I write. To communicate something, even an expression of pain, as the world both lives and dies laughs and cries as the sun dances so quickly across the sky we forget that we are spinning always around a center we cannot see, something holding us here, together in life and death as the two become one and the horror and the beauty merge into something so much grander than I have ever imagined or dared to believe, even these brief glimpses seem to leave me no better than before; I cannot say what progress is about, because I only seem to know what looks like failure. Except in the grace that holds my life, and somehow I see and appreciate, the beauty that is here, and if wanting more is the cause of pain, then I see how I pay the price in wanting every day, some other kiss, a different caress than this one I receive every day, from what can only be god.