1.30.24

No, not yet. This morning I wrote: 

Of course, grief found me again. Grief was always waiting just outside the door. And then the thought; grief is the door. 

No, not yet. 

Other thoughts: 
Snow is a natural expression of winter. When it snows hard outside, we all walk in the neighborhood as if we know each other. 
I live among people, a leaf among trees. One strong wind, and; 
To write about the land is to also contend with the sadness of the land. The land remembers. The land is memory itself. We forget and the land remembers. 
I was human too, but I tried to forget. I want too, but I tried to forget. 
But the one who knows- the one inside always watching- knows, always. 

"God is the human being fully alive." 

So on the other side of the door, I think I still hear knocking. Remembering the heart of things. The sound of the writing, the memory of the land, the softness of your hand. 

And then: 
I don't want to forget. I want to remember you. 

And then, again: 
How to let another suffer on their own?
To risk being misunderstood.