This writings so good for me. The baby and I sat in the grass and loved yesterday. Loved spring, life, the weather. Basking in it. I want her to know how good it is, and ought to be, to feel alive.

I always know my overall health by how easily I come back to the earth. It is difficult lately for me to do so, we meet day after day but to meet and be still… I wonder at the closeness of our neighbors, and my overall paranoia. I am grateful I am in therapy again. And more grateful at the silken content of words, not the words them self as in their meaning, but the effortless emersion of their creation the single fine linemoment my fingers hit the keys. Line after line. It has been work to get here. Lifelines of discipline fumbling over them letter by letter since January and the great grey blank spaces in my head. I’d write … blank spaces there since the baby if that’s all I thought it was, but really it’d be since the BabyBlendedFamCovidNewHouse to write the actual great blankness source. Anyhow perhaps this is the true litmus though? The easier my fingers glide with the words, the less familiar nature is to me?

Does the body change the more it primes of itself?

This is the borderspace

Does change in body change bodies wild nature?

Shouldn’t that read wild natures

Would one somehow know less of herself then, not more?

At these weird Coming To misty moments on behalf of the fugd up still breathing and beautiful world: Yes of course I’d say, yes, of course~

I space out on my self. Thankful too that patients come, increasingly in person too, because of how incredibly different the treatment is, how much more awake my body is to the environ when we get to sit eye to eye. I have five today and the baby sleeps enough for me to steal a morning hour. Last night K and I finished cleaning the fire circle just inside the forest, where the hard old growth are and the blue Chesapeake conservation signs begin. One truth I am inside of ohh am I blessed, looking in, looking out, openish at least here, near the edge.