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Spring.
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A day for Rumi and desperately needed rest.
"This is not a day for asking questions,
not a day on any calendar.
This day is conscious of itself.
This day is a lover, bread and gentleness,
more manifest than saying can say."
My apartment is a mess of clean laundry waiting to be put away, wooden blocks, unopened mail, paint samples, fabric swatches, unfinished sketches, pamphlets for appliances, countertops and cabinets, unread condo docs, undone homework, and a delicate tower of lincoln logs.
I feel light.
My baby is finishing dinner. I will put him to bed early (he had no nap) and then run off to sit where we usually sit and chatter with cigarettes and evil evil caffeine.
"Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I'll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase each other
doesn't make any sense."
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