Dec29

On the night you passed, leaving me behind
to wail and mourn and lose my mind
I wanted to follow, to be where you were,
but the others I love kept me here.
Now that time has swept me along
there's another parting, feels just as wrong:
as I go on into winter's days
I leave you behind in the summer haze.
Every reminder of the season past
when you drifted away as you breathed your last
can choke me up and stop me short--
this pain is not of the healing sort.

Dec 28

A tree can remind me of you,
and I, I live in a forest.
The loss of you is a gaping wound.
If I lived alone I could fill my days with grief,
probing the wound, making it bleed,
and wearing the blood because you are worthy.
But I do not live alone,
and have a duty toward my surviving loved ones.
And so I bind the wound to hide the bleeding
lest it frighten, shock or horrify.
And only in solitary moments
do I open the dressing,
with shaking fingers probe the wound,
and realize again that
jagged shards remain deep within,
complete healing will never come.

Photo: View of sunset, from the sea wall of Stanley Park, Vancouver, Dec. 1, 2011.


How strange...last night as we listened to Winnipeg Symphony Orchestra performing Handel's Messiah, amid a crowd of people seeming in the spirit of the season, the words "Adrift at Christmas" came to mind when I thought of how I fear to face this first Christmas without our son, brother, brother-in-law, uncle, this family-focused festive time we feel so outside of this year. Today my head was filled with images of a storm-wrecked ship adrift, and I tried to put some of the words to paper.

ALL ADRIFT AT CHRISTMAS
How swiftly change past friendly seas
to ravening waves of chaos.
Where once all hands together held
our guiding sail, our trusted wheel,
now severed lie the lines, and loosely swings the wheel.
Now the sails slap despondently.
No progress in these sluggish waters;
we are a shipwreck
from the storm that hit us unforeseen.
Weakened by that storm,
we each of us, the few now left who sail in her
are caught in coils of broken lines,
and so involved in our own web
we do neglect each other.
Other ships sail smoothly by,
bound for safe, sure harbours.
We see no reason why we should,
and couldn't find it if we did,
the night so dark and starless.

From this I turned to my reading for the day (actually I'm a little ahead, it's the December twentieth reading) in Watch For The Light: Readings for Advent and Christmas, Orbis Books, 2008. Entitled "Shipwrecked At The Stable", by Brennan Manning, (page189) it quotes José Ortega, "The man with the clear head is the man who frees himself from fantasy and looks life in the face, realizes that everything in it is problematic, and feels himself lost. And this is the simple truth--that to live is to feel oneself lost. Whoever accepts this has already begun to find himself, to be on firm ground. Instinctively, as do the shipwrecked, he will look around, for something to which to cling, and that tragic, ruthless glance, absolutely sincere because it is a question of his salvation, will cause him to bring order to the chaos of his life. These are the only genuine ideas; the ideas of the shipwrecked.  All the rest is rhetoric, posturing, farce. He who does not feel himself lost, is without remission; that is to say he never finds himself, never comes up against his own reality."

Photo of end of season Rudbeckia, Vancouver

Dec. 14, 2011
'Tormented' is the word that comes to mind
But I will do them a kindness
And answer, 'Okay, and how are you?'
I do not know how to live with this.

Cruel love, your loss destroys
and cripples that within us
that tries to love but understands no longer
what existence even is.

You cannot drown sorrows;
they live on and on,
surviving your burbling attempts,
your bumbling and stumbling attempts,
their horned heads rising
behind every bluff you call.

And the tears keep flowing
just like those trick candles
which, though you keep blowing,
remain aflame.

I remember a moment
not two years ago,
bending over my flowerbed
and recognizing contentment
as I gazed on my life.
Gone, now,
and the flowerbed had gone to weed
long before the first snow
mercifully covered it,
neglected and forgotten,
overshadowed by grief.

The others speak of comfort as if comfort can exist
after cataclysmic trauma, after losses such as this.
Please don't try to lift me as my heart has not yet healed
It was melted in the fire and has not yet re-congealed
It was shattered 'neath the hammer and has not yet crystallized
It was dissolved into a dew and has not yet materialized
It was torn apart in the attack and still lies strewn around
It was paralyzed and still remains so from the sudden trumpet sound
It was ground to dust and pebble between the millstones of disaster
It was tumbled off its pedestal like shattered alabaster
It was frozen when the icicle of death fell from the blue
It was tangled in grief's coiling net and has not yet struggled through
It lies beneath the waves of chaos suffering from the theft of love
Awaiting some all-healing spirit hovering above

In my pain, in my panic
I ran too far, or was I thrown?
Just can't get up, can't find my way back
to where I was, and the peace I had known.
All my past is previous lives,
all now changed beyond repair.
How to go on with awful awareness
that what I thought solid was solid as air.
What if I should loose my mind
like an arrow from a bow;
what place would it come to rest in,
how far would it fall or go?
What if I start talking hard,
saying nothing really matters.
If life's so cheap of someone you love,
what is constant? Everything shatters.
What if I scorned all claims of purpose,
seeing through all sorry games,
like working, thinking, eating, marrying,
giving, taking, what remains?

Isaiah 40:3 On Advent

Even the valleys within me, Lord,
Especially the valleys within me,
Some day to be leveled:
I say let the work begin.
For in me are such valleys
As frustrate the best map makers,
Except for the Master map maker
Who easily finds the way
To prepare the road within me
Beginning this very day.
And in my accursed weakness
I welcome the construction
And smile but meanwhile behind me
One foot is busy digging,
Always making the valley deeper,
And knowing it should not be thus.

First of Advent
Let hope begin again

Keep your heart open, as well keep your eyes
Though dark be the clouds and heavy the skies
There may come an omen of possible peace
Hope may yet return: watch for the red leaf

If ever a father's prayer is listened to,
If ever a mother's prayer is heard:
These are the promises that You have spoken,
These are the promises, You gave Your Word.

I hope less. I wait more
in silence unknowing
before a closed door.
I see less. I ask more.
I guess no God's will.
I seek less. I keep more
inside, dark, and try to be still,
the stillness the first step
before we can know.
And what lies beyond death
only dying will show.

 

Come walk in the woods in autumn,
the beckoning branches call.
Come see the beauty of the autumn sun
as it shines through leaves, as they glow and fall,
and the tall dried grasses whispering low
of the shorter days soon, and the coming snow.
As the nights go by, the days grow thinner,
the song will change: come walk in the winter.

I stood with the trees but the trees didn't care,
just fluttered their leaves to the moving air.
I stood by the creek as the tears ran hotter,
but creeks don't care, just move their water.
I stood in the shade of a passing boulder,
unmoved and unmoving; we grew silent and older.
I threw myself down in the arms of the grass,
but it whispered apologies and let me pass.
Nothing in this world can answer my heart
(how many the questions when once I start).
Nothing in this world can calm my grief
(how brief the glory of the flaming leaf).

"Be slow to pray. Praying most often doesn't get us what we want but what God wants, something quite at variance with what we conceive to be in our best interests. And when we realize what is going on, it is often too late to go back. Be slow to pray." (Eugene Peterson, Working the Angles: the Shape of Pastoral Integrity, p. 44) quoted in Prayer: Does It Make Any Diffrence, by Philip Yancey.

I hesitate to wake today,
for fear I may meet God,
and any meeting lead to knowledge
wider than I thought.
To stay would be the comfortable,
easiest of things;
God could be out there anywhere
and draw me with strong strings.
Oh, never mind, the truth is now,
for even as I slept
the Lord was lurking deep within,
preparing me for depth.

2:08 a.m.

He doesn't even have existence anymore.
Must he lose even my remembrance of him?
Just because it hurts me to think of him
And how unfair it is that he was cut off
Like a voice in mid-song
And how it hurts to miss that music that he is not anymore,
does that mean I can stop thinking about him?
Just because I am tired of the bone-jarring sobs
The soul-shaking breath-taking stomach-aching sobs,
Does that mean I can turn over and rest in sleep?
Wildly loved, now passionately mourned.
Deeply needed, now painfully missed.
I don't understand but i'll stay awake anyway.

Autumn Haiku

Leaf bursts into flame
Glories in fall's slanting sun
Then is seen no more

I have never moved mountains but they have trembled in my sight
when the fury has poured over in hot tears of not right;
and the earth has not been shaken by anything I said
but I've had my footing swept away by eyes that I have read
and by words that shook foundations and cut me to the quick
though I didn't lose a drop of blood, kept stumbling, hurt and sick.
And the planets in alignment have shuddered and misstepped
from explosive angry visions I saw just before I slept.
So shaken have been all the worlds this universe contains
by rumblings in my thoughts and by poisons in my veins;
not only is it faith that can move mountains by the ranges
but death comes, and its aftershocks, and all you trusted changes.

Shall I go on praying for my children
now that one of ours is no more?
And shall I pray for future generations,
the way I faithfully would pray before?
When once the thing you fear has come upon you
it won't make sense to go on as you were;
the knowledge of how fragile life is always
can stop you cold as you begin your prayer.
The search begins to find if there's an answer;
one question sounds, another right behind it-
how shall I go on now that his has happened?
and why? And I sincerely hope I find it.

Peach Pie recipe, modified
(serves the rest of the family,
coming home all together
for the first time since the accident)
-Roll out pie dough, prepared a few days before,
when the family get-together was arranged.
Place in pie pan, brush with egg
that has been beaten
-Using the last of the peaches
that the heroic brother and sister brought home
from the trip west to pick up
all their brother's belongings
from his small apartment;
do not peel, but chop to make 5 cups
-2 tablespoons lemon juice,
sprinkled over peaches in large bowl,
mixing gently. May add a tear or two
-In separate bowl, mix 1/2 cup sugar
and 1/2 cup flour, 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon,
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg, 1/4 teaspoon salt
-Pour over peaches, mix gently
-Pour into pie crust,
dot with two tablespoons butter,
stopping to wipe tears and blow nose,
washing hands after words, weeping words
in grieving mind that still can't believe it
-Cover with top crust, brush with beaten egg,
pierce with fork
-Bake 400 10 minutes, then 350 for 30 minutes,
or until golden brown
-After beating, chopping, mixing,
weeping, washing, grieving,
piercing,
cool before serving.

I'm tired of you, grief.
My eyes are sore from taking your hits.
My stomach aches from the punch you gave it.
My legs are weakened, and dizzy my head;
My mouth is dry and my nose is red.
Every time I try to walk away
you spin me around and land another.
I've no strength to hit back; there's nothing to say.
For I know to fight back is not worth the bother.
It seems you never will let me go;
as far as I run, you're still there with me, I know.
You'll take all my strength and turn my hair gray.
I'm tired of you, grief, but you're here to stay.,

Somebody show me another world
I'm kind of tired of this one.
Take me away for a moment of rest
To forget for a while we lost one of the best
And I promise i'll come back and pick it all up
And do all my chores and finish my cup
But just for an hour a week or a year
Show me another world.

Between mother and child there is a bond,
intangible but intended for permanence,
which all the years of growing up
and out and away may thin and stretch,
but never sever,
as permission is given for child to grow up
and mother to grow old and less needed.
Where love is, the bond brings joy
at every reunion, and distress at every parting.
Death, then, is a cruel occurrence,
a disruption of an essential system
in the human heart.

And there is no consolation
and can be no consolation

That mental placement,
the automatic locator system in a mother's brain,
whereby at any moment she numbers all her children
and knows where each is
cannot be turned off,
and continues the search
long after the body has been found
and always returns to 
the wound that was his location in her mind.

Ecclesiastes 9:11

I will aim my anger at randomness,
good memories my ammunition.
Like an atheist angry at God,
I, a theist, curse life's random condition.
Though there are signs of fine orchestration,
and there's rhythm to life, like a dance,
the race is not to the swiftest,
for we're all at the mercy of chance.

There is a beauty in nature
(milkweed leaf with sun behind)
but it is innocent of inspiration
to my weary grieving mind.
And robins may sing to the morning
(liquid music drips from the tree)
but they cannot lift the shattered heart
that has known death's finality.
Where now is the hope I lived with
(in the days before he passed);
where's the light of a new day dawning,
now the whole world is overcast?

If death is natural, and neither evil nor not evil, it is at least true that the parting, or separation, as in the death of a loved one, is an evil, and I believe, a "type" or fractal foretaste, of hell.
......................
Not even in my dreams do I see him any more.
How can he be so finally gone?
If this grief is all that is left me of him,
Long may I bleed, and long feel the pain.
The ache of missing him will surely never end.
How did I not know that he had passed on,
Until days had passed by? And I his mother.
And he my beloved son.
If I scream loudly enough,
Will the universe wake up?

At the occurrence of the impossible
be not too hasty to accept it;
let denial of the horror
testify to it's enormity.
Only with a wounding fury
can I even begin to ponder
that this nightmare may have happened,
and you be lost to us forever.
Long ago I heard the whimpers
when a dog was dealt his deathblow.
from his very breathing depths
came the cringing cries of pain.
Mine come out in words as I lie bleeding,
Into the world around me I leak the spreading stain.

I don't know where
I just know not here
I don't know where
I just know gut pain
I don't know where
I just know I miss you
I don't know where
I just know I can't stand it

Ripped to ribbons, cut to shreds,
How can I offer a heart half dead

(Photo: Insects at night at the yardlight around the corner of the barn roof)

Pounding my fists on our side
of the floor boards of heaven
all I get is:
stinging eyes from the dusty gold trickle through the cracks;
the faint strain of trumpet solos;
the distant sound of the door slamming after new arrivals;
welcoming laughter and introductions;
a wave of cheering as the game turns for the team that will win;
an occasional and all-to-rare, muffled but unmistakeable voice with the wisest, most loving tones, and silence as all there listen;
and left alone in the basement world
I make my way through mould and dark
by the long thin lines of light
that are all I have to see by.

I don't know what means the word 'never'.
I guess I will be waiting the rest of my life.
I don't know if it's a furious pain
Or a painful fury but it cuts like a knife.

Your absence changed the look of trees.
There's a great unfocused fury;
Too angry to eat and then cursing my hunger,
Wanting only to feed my tribute rage.
As awareness registers, one knife thrust at a time,
There is no reason to go upstairs to relax,
And I may have to buy a new remote control.
Good thing I didn't hit the big screen.

There isn't any part of you
That we can cling and hold onto
You
Are
So
Gone
And, me? I'll walk and carry on
Pretend to live though you are gone

I never knew one was such a big number.
Losing one beloved is so, so much
a number beyond counting
a seeming endless void
a constant subtraction
a measureless vacancy

You didn't know, when you folded your clothes and put your phone on top,
eyeing the cool smooth lake water;
you anticipated the coolness, the silky caresses
as your strong lean body pulled it's way through the welcoming wavelets;
too welcoming, they would not let you go.
And what unexpected adventure are you seeing now?

You create and call it good
And so the creatures come to love it.
But You say "wait, i've got a better idea!"
And yank the child so suddenly into the next world
only silence is left behind.
There can be no understanding between us, Sir.
But You do not need my understanding.

Denial, you were a lovely blanket, and I wrapped so snugly, with the pillow of disbelief hugged underneath my cheek.
Now the blanket is being slowly pulled away, or maybe it is wearing thin.
Because I am starting to feel the cold; the cold is coming.

Part of my mind is convinced the underwater search and rescue unit is unnecessary.
Why seek the living among the dead?
Surely he will come walking back into the house. Or call on the phone with his distinctive way of saying, "hi, mom?"
I can hear and see him; he's very much alive in my mind's eye.
I will think about it later.
If only people didn't keep phoning, messaging, hugging,
Rudely reminding me.

Who can tell me where he is?
The all-powerful one isn't listening.
He can't be missing: he's my son and I can see him so clearly coming back home to us.
Why are people bringing us food and offers of anything I can do?
Surely they don't believe the reports!
It cannot be true.

But I know this is how God operates.
I have seen it before.

 

BECAUSE I DID NOT STOP
The words came as I weeded, thoughts urgent pouring down,
like the sun's unending heat on the overheated ground.
Too intent on work before me, swinging weedy battle sword,
I made no pause to save them, coming of their own accord.
Building rhythm, still they fell into my mind intent on working,
and I wondered whether stopping to seek pencil would be shirking.
Surely it was solemn duty to keep tilling in the soil,
though the shiny verbal glitter tempted me away from toil.
So, persistent in my calling to do work of worthy merit,
I forever lost the golden song; to my regret I'll never hear it.
-HJ July/August 2001

An Autobiography by Agatha Christie

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


What a fascinating look back at the long ago world of bathing machines (!), travel on the Orient Express, and the family and social life of this well-respected and prolific author. I enjoyed Agatha Christie's thoughts on the not necessarily valid societal admiration of people who keep busy, her unique view point on the changes concerning women's rights, her recognition of the freedoms of maturity, and various other social comments and observations.



View all my reviews

While rereading the saga of Job, I did some quick research into the character of his oft-maligned wife, and found many commentaries making reference to Job's unnamed wife as being used by Satan toward the downfall of Job, or at the least, being no help or support to her husband. But I also found the translation rendered "curse God and die" could also read "bless God and die", possibly being heartfelt advice to a beloved husband not admitting the depth of his trauma by thoughtlessly and perhaps dishonestly offering glib praise to God, thereby putting his integrity and possibly his life into grave danger. Like many Bible passages, much is left to the imagination.

Outside the house, much talking.
Men's voices raised, men's tears falling,
shouting and arm waving, wailing and calling,
arguing, praying, jumping up and walking,
wisdom of ages closely examined,
visions and dreams sought for clarification,
strong accusations and justification,
all in the face of sudden death, loss, and famine.
The women inside sit quietly weeping,
preparing the food for those still living,
a shoulder touched soothingly, hands busy giving,
friends kneading her bread, cleaning, and sweeping,
no words declaring a clear explanation,
sobs of distress into clean offered cloths,
meeting of teary eyes, comfort for loss,
shared pain in each breath, each sighed exhalation.
Blest be the LORD who giveth and taketh
In the LORD's hands the lives of all the LORD maketh.
-HJ, July 2011

Found while browsing the internet:


My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain,
My crop of corn is but a field of tares,
And all my good is but vain hope of gain;
The day is past, and yet I saw no sun,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

My tale was heard and yet it was not told,
My fruit is fallen, and yet my leaves are green,
My youth is spent and yet I am not old,
I saw the world and yet I was not seen;
My thread is cut and yet it is not spun,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

I sought my death and found it in my womb,
I looked for life and saw it was a shade,
I trod the earth and knew it was my tomb,
And now I die, and now I was but made;
My glass is full, and now my glass is run,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

-Chidiock Tichborne 1558-1586
(written on the even of his execution during the reign of Elizabeth I)

I am a blighted leaf.
At best, I could not stay for long
where sun and shade are gleaming.
If I was whole, and green with strength,
the root's life through me streaming,
had spent my time inhaling sun
to build up life around me,
I soon would dry and crumbled be,
return to humus readily,
having given it my all.
But I, I am a blighted leaf,
with doubts and dire infirmity
having somehow taken hold of me,
it stunts me and it binds me.
Yet here's the sun.
And I will let its gentle rays,
its burning rays,
shine through me as it finds me.
-HJ

Ecclesiastes 11:10 So then, banish anxiety from your heart
and cast off the troubles of your body,
for youth and vigor are meaningless.
Ecclesiastes 12:1 Remember your Creator
in the days of your youth,
before the days of trouble come
and the years approach when you will say,
“I find no pleasure in them”—

Memory makes skin smooth again
Firms abdomen
Turns salt and pepper to jet black shiny hair
The solidness of him, the muscular strength and keen-eye piercing look of him
The ready smile when motion was easy.
No pain of hinge or heart yet crippled him,
His stride was long and rapid,
Tall and lean.
Could climb a yard pole just with hand and foot
To change the light bulb, and come, safe, laughing down.
If now i ran (could run) to you and jumped
Could you still catch me in your arms?
-HJ

To keep in shape I walk theoretically
as I exercise my right to a comfortable couch.
I do laps, losing track of time,
on the circular argument of self-centered indulgence.
I try to pull my weight, but it just keeps pulling back,
and I surrender and lay down my tired arms,
giving up the battle for today,
hoping that tomorrow I will have become
the warrior triumphant in victory.
Yes, tomorrow I will surely rise to fight again.
-HJ

Introverts in the Church: Finding Our Place in an Extroverted Culture by Adam S. McHugh

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


I really enjoyed reading this book. So many descriptions of the introvert personality traits were eye-openers for me. On page 44, the description of physiological brain differences between introverts and extroverts was astounding and validating. Having sometimes felt inferior because of a lot of these differences, it is a comfort to know that my 'slowness' in social situations is sometimes simply characteristic of the way my brain is wired. It also helps me be more tolerant of extrovert type of behavior.
P. 82: "Proper solitude leads to compassion and love for others." P. 84: "People of prayer become people of action." P. 149: "People will watch what we do before they listen to what we say."



View all my reviews

 

ASCENSION DAY
My faith is made of questioning.
My best beliefs outlast the doubts.
Knowing what I am unsure of
convinces me to seek truth out.
No pat answers and certain scenarios;
I hold eternity by a thread
knowing I have finite hands
with which to grapple mysteries.
And always inside me there is this feeling,
gained from reading the whole of the Book, repeatedly:
Mercy trumps Justice,
while both will be fully manifest,
and Love is the final answer.
It is with gratitude,
Through mist and uncertainty,
I worship, and hope to serve in response.
-HJ, June 2, 2011

 

You will not always lift me up and remove me from deep waters.
Though overwhelmed by sorrow and pain, I am still a beloved daughter.
And I may stand in riverbed sand with the surface high above me,
but not alone, for You have made known You are with me and always love me.
And as the disciples left that place from which their Lord ascended
they did not receive a life of ease, with all their troubles ended,
but they were given the promised gift of the Spirit Who comes in power
to comfort us, to be with us until our final hour.
Until we pass beyond hours and time, into a world made new,
we must remain in this world receiving and giving strength from You.
Then may we be blessed by the knowledge of Your comforting presence near us,
and may we share the Love you bear, and the love with which You hear us.
-HJ, June 2011

 

Me? An Instrument of Righteousness?!?

Eph. 2:6 6 And God raised us up with Christ and seated us with him in the heavenly realms in Christ Jesus,
Rom. 6:13 13 ...but rather offer yourselves to God as those who have been brought from death to life; and offer every part of yourself to him as an instrument of righteousness.

But I did not know I would do THIS sin!
I accepted forgiveness for all I had done,
and all that I should have but didn't achieve
And now I am shocked, find it hard to believe,
the grizzly, and gristly nature of this,
my latest act of miserableness.
I must reexamine the hope that I have:
I'm called God's child, and not sin's slave.
Can I still claim the forgiveness, still be that blessed thing,
An instrument of righteousness, serving the King?
Thanks be to God for the grace He extends,
forgiveness of all sins until this life ends.
Though I try not to fail Him I do anyway.
but He saw I would fail Him, saw all on that day
When He made me the offer to die in my place,
knowing full well the filth I would throw in His face.
And this sin, my latest in a long line of fault,
makes clear I cannot seem to bring it to a halt.
If I am forgiven, as night follows day
it follows all people are loved in this way.
Lord, sharpen this instrument, polish off rust,
to serve You and Your people until I am dust.

-HJ, April 2011

 

I am reading Champagne For The Soul: Rediscovering God's Gift of Joy by Mike Mason, and I'm not sure yet what I make of it. But it has made me examine my experience of the kind of joy that is everlasting, maybe even abiding.

Is joy a cloak I can pull tighter
when I face fierce stormy winds
some of which blow through the fabric
but cannot chill me to the bone?

Or is joy more like a foundation 
I stand strong on, and unshaken,
until rocked so badly that I fall,
and though fallen I still cling?

Or is joy an inner treasure
though an earthen jar contains it
with a cracked and nicked appearance
as it wears through daily use?

As I shake it out to see it,
as I test its firm endurance,
as I peer inside to see it shine
I'm just thankful that it's there.
-HJ Apr. 16, 2011

I walked to town this morning, and couldn't resist taking photos of a little girl enjoying puddles!

"Become A Child"
The Lord leads me by the hand
Though my arms swing wildly,
for He takes big steps.
I look way up and smile
because He stops to let me jump in puddles
and if I should get muddy
only smiles at me in love.
I think He made those beautiful puddles.
-HJ Apr. 11, 2011

Struck down again I let myself lie,
My face on the rock, and I let myself cry.
Why fight it when flat on the solid ground,
Supported at least by the lowest of down,
And up is too difficult anyway
So I might as well rest on the rock where I lay
Me down to sleep or maybe to dream
Of the day I stand strong again, tall and lean,
The day when I've gotten the help I need,
All healed in the places I used to bleed.
But for now I think I will let myself lie
My face on the rock my back to the sky.
-HJ Apr. 10, 2011