Thursday, October 28, 2010


I have seen the small white stones waiting alone under the moon. They turn their pale faces upward as I pass. They have scattered themselves down the gravel road. They are frequently seen on the edge of the lake where the waters wash away their sharpness. It is a gentle process... this seeking to be round.
Stephanie called early with a question which I answered by telling two stories from my past.
It happened one day that I fell asleep in the middle of Rabbit's dinner. I was awakened by snow falling on my face. I opened my eyes to find myself surrounded by hungry rabbits. I wondered at their fearlessness. But just then they fled in unison and disappeared as quickly as a sneeze.
On another occasion I sat in a deer bed trying to act like a deer. Two curious does stepped from the trees to watch me. One came closer and closer on her shining black hooves. Step by step she advanced. Then the other doe stamped her foot and made such a fuss that Stepping Deer turned and walked slowly back to the trees. Soon I was alone again.
This morning I dreamed that I had gone to a domestic violence event at a large gloomy building in a crowded community on a cold wet night. Inside the building I became confused and asked various people for direction. No one seemed to know what I was talking about. At last I discovered a small hand printed note on a dark wall which directed me to the proper lobby. Several information booths had been set up. I took many posters and handouts to pass on to those who could not attend. Inside the auditorium I found a small gathering of women. I put the posters on a seat. Then I removed my iridescent mauve robe and spread it on a seat to dry. I sat down expecting to hear a parade of speakers. A woman rose from the front row and took center stage. She was somehow familiar but her face was out of focus. She was not tall. She was slightly overweight and poorly clothed. In fact, she was wearing my navy blue sweater. She looked out at us and I was filled with a profound sorrow. Then she began to sing. Her voice rose above us then fell upon us in great scalding drops. Then the drops cooled to a gentle rain. At last her voice crumbled like old roses and petals tumbled all around. I wanted to stand and shout, "Bravo!" But I could not move. I could not speak. I woke up slowly with the beautiful opera still in my ears and the fragrance of roses covering my bed.

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