I Wish To Be For You (from A Tide of Eurydice, by Hani'a Hummingbird Hototo)
I wish to Be for you, Eurydice
I wish to Be your life-times-long friend
I wish to Be as an Oak for you, tall, wide, steady
A veteran of weathering many a storm
A bastion for the tree-house of your wishes and dreams
May you at the root of my evolving canopy
Find rest and relief from the merciless truth,
That will still find Its way to you, dappled and bespeckled
Softened into multi-colored streaks through the kaleidoscope of twigs and leaves,
And the myriad turns of boughs and limbs that are the countless forms of
My love and my care and my concern for you.
And may you, secure,
At the very Root of my Being,
Gazing upon the prism’d Light, come lightly
To Understand what truth, so merciless to all who dare to look directly,
Reveals for any so fortunate as to have the priceless Gift of God’s mercy
Bestowed via a life-times-long friend
~
I wish to Be for you, Eurydice
I wish to Be your life-times-long friend
I wish to Be as an Oak for you, tall, wide, steady
A veteran of weathering many a storm
A bastion for the tree-house of your wishes and dreams
May you at the root of my evolving canopy
Find rest and relief from the merciless truth,
That will still find Its way to you, dappled and bespeckled
Softened into multi-colored streaks through the kaleidoscope of twigs and leaves,
And the myriad turns of boughs and limbs that are the countless forms of
My love and my care and my concern for you.
And may you, secure,
At the very Root of my Being,
Gazing upon the prism’d Light, come lightly
To Understand what truth, so merciless to all who dare to look directly,
Reveals for any so fortunate as to have the priceless Gift of God’s mercy
Bestowed via a life-times-long friend
~
Adam Wept (from Love, Desire, and the Fire of Knowledge by Hani'a Hummingbird Hototo)
Before he had flesh, Adam Wept
He cried because he remembered
Because he did not wish to forget his Love for God
Adam did not want to become subject to Time
He did not want a body
Nor a heart
Nor a mind
Who would wish to become unreal?
Perhaps Adam intuited that upon the Earth:
Suffering would lay wait In Happiness;
Pain would masquerade As Pleasure:
Perhaps Adam knew
Pleasure and Happiness
And Suffering and Pain
To be most unreal, unless…
You are burdened with a body-heart-mind.
Adam cried for fear of forgetting
Perhaps he intuited he would become fond of having a body,
Like happiness too much,
And would come to love pleasure
Yes, Adam wept.
And so too, do I weep:
Because under Time’s merciless dominion,
we indeed forget
…Our Love of God
…And how should we not cry, seeing we are helpless before the Will thereof?
~
Before he had flesh, Adam Wept
He cried because he remembered
Because he did not wish to forget his Love for God
Adam did not want to become subject to Time
He did not want a body
Nor a heart
Nor a mind
Who would wish to become unreal?
Perhaps Adam intuited that upon the Earth:
Suffering would lay wait In Happiness;
Pain would masquerade As Pleasure:
Perhaps Adam knew
Pleasure and Happiness
And Suffering and Pain
To be most unreal, unless…
You are burdened with a body-heart-mind.
Adam cried for fear of forgetting
Perhaps he intuited he would become fond of having a body,
Like happiness too much,
And would come to love pleasure
Yes, Adam wept.
And so too, do I weep:
Because under Time’s merciless dominion,
we indeed forget
…Our Love of God
…And how should we not cry, seeing we are helpless before the Will thereof?
~
Volleys of words (By Victor Margolin Professor Emeritus of Design HistoryDepartment of Art History University of Illinois, Chicago)
Volleys of words
Besiege my brain
Relentless attacks
Of ignorance
Stupid words
Rain down on
Healthy soil
Whole towns destroyed
Deep holes made
Deftly I move
Between the volleys
Searching for routes
That skirt the ravages
That thoughtless language
Wreaks on the landscape
Stupid words and phrases
Are bad enough
But then again
They form into sentences
Paragraphs, even whole
Tirades
When defenses thin
I seek refuge in
Hidden places
With shields of sanity
Sound thoughts against
Ignorant sounds
Save my soul from
Utter despair
~
Volleys of words
Besiege my brain
Relentless attacks
Of ignorance
Stupid words
Rain down on
Healthy soil
Whole towns destroyed
Deep holes made
Deftly I move
Between the volleys
Searching for routes
That skirt the ravages
That thoughtless language
Wreaks on the landscape
Stupid words and phrases
Are bad enough
But then again
They form into sentences
Paragraphs, even whole
Tirades
When defenses thin
I seek refuge in
Hidden places
With shields of sanity
Sound thoughts against
Ignorant sounds
Save my soul from
Utter despair
~
In Cloud Cuckoo Land by Hillel Natanson
There are bridges to childhood too.
They swing lantern-like between poles north and south,
Arguing slyly in space with Great Time Himself
Over which is least, and who is best,
A top-ten list of east and west.
In a time when poets forget their poems
And write long novels instead,
Their flowing movements
Mimic the airy rhymes of clouds.
Examples include cumulus,
Just in from Sarajevo,
Hovering like pale balloons
Over violet landscapes of metal and mud.
Cumulonimbus too fires up the firmament
With a jive pastiche of multi-culti kitsch,
Day-glow lime mounting marbled magenta
Against billowing dollops of coffee-brown cotton,
Good for a minute, and gone for good.
And there are cirrus too,
From the other side (Ontario, maybe?)
Wanton witnesses of goofy lichens
Growing green up perfect chimneys,
And other such scenes of safe domesticity.
They all float beckoningly by,
Pestering children and somnambulists alike
Who, mumbling and cavorting with the peasants
Down by the river in the industrial park,
Weave wreaths of joy from dry parchment
And wring wraiths from Cain’s able conscience.
Salt, anyone?
There are bridges to childhood too.
They swing lantern-like between poles north and south,
Arguing slyly in space with Great Time Himself
Over which is least, and who is best,
A top-ten list of east and west.
In a time when poets forget their poems
And write long novels instead,
Their flowing movements
Mimic the airy rhymes of clouds.
Examples include cumulus,
Just in from Sarajevo,
Hovering like pale balloons
Over violet landscapes of metal and mud.
Cumulonimbus too fires up the firmament
With a jive pastiche of multi-culti kitsch,
Day-glow lime mounting marbled magenta
Against billowing dollops of coffee-brown cotton,
Good for a minute, and gone for good.
And there are cirrus too,
From the other side (Ontario, maybe?)
Wanton witnesses of goofy lichens
Growing green up perfect chimneys,
And other such scenes of safe domesticity.
They all float beckoningly by,
Pestering children and somnambulists alike
Who, mumbling and cavorting with the peasants
Down by the river in the industrial park,
Weave wreaths of joy from dry parchment
And wring wraiths from Cain’s able conscience.
Salt, anyone?
War & Peace (by Rosana Schutte )
The Brotherhood of men
is smoking in a dark alley
contemplating the Peaceniks
next door.
Not that they don’t appreciate their efforts, but … no war?
Not an iota? Not a jot?
What would that do to the unemployment numbers?
And how else can the point be put across
to those who refuse to do it right?
Clearly they have to be made to listen –
and hadn’t history proved that
a sword or a bayonet or a bullet was effective?
Meanwhile, the non-violent activists
on the inside of the wall
were sure those guys out there
weren’t 10 feet from the building
because their fumes penetrated
the breathes that floated those here, crossed-legged, into a deep reverence,
and
the rat-a-tat laughter and comrade conspiratorial murmurs
punctured the no-thought inner space
where, just recently, ideas are born of reaching out
a hammer-hand gloved in soft-toned platitudes
to those lurking in dusky plumes.
Now, there is an opening salvo for sure …
~
A Picture of You (by Rosana Shutte)
I broke down today.
It was a picture of you that did it.
Your laughter, a joy so rarely captured in stillness.
Your passion for husband,
the way you embodied a rapture of sweetness.
I remember you.
That way of tenderly sitting in silence with another’s pain;
and a quiet wisdom you brought to the room;
the warm strength as you held my heart in the hearth of your hands.
I broke down today.
It was a picture of you that did it.
Blowing out candles on a cake baked with laughter;
your smiling at the devotion it was iced with;
You adored your children; delighted in their artistry of living.
I remember you.
The wee hour conversations guided by questions and smoke;
soft understanding and genuine interest encouraging the edges of self-knowing;
safety in a look out of the blue lakes of your eyes.
I broke down today,
It was a picture of you that did it.
Broken body, blood mixed in rubble, baby eyes staring open at death’s vista.
A mother’s chest agape with screams.
The hope of all ancestors aborted by bombs and vacant hatred.
I remember you.
That wonderment you personified, that spark of future you carried;
laughter unfurling into salty seas and peek-a-boo giggles;
a raw, new world you would lead us to.
I broke down today,
It was a picture of you that did it.
Igniting flames to evoke the lives extinguished in war’s ravage.
Railing at power to “hear my prayer” and cease the crazy.
Not accepting the demolition, annihilation done in your name.
I remember you.
The dignity with which you stand beseeching, amid the light;
so many stars in a dark night, shining your comfort across the barricades;
showing that brother and sister, no matter the deity, are love related.
I broke down today,
It was a picture of you that did it.
And I stand, witness to the flicker of your embers.
I remember you.
~
One Human Force (by Rosana Schutte)
What if the Promised Land described by Moses’ commandments (4:44)
was an inner realm and not a geographic landscape at all?
What if the Chosen People were all those who escaped the slavery of believing our inequality and the yoke of an understanding which
would see an other?
What if the Red Sea’s parting, caused by an action of realized faith, was really
the separating of the roiling waters of our depths so that we can pass through to the other side of our own insight, drowning words of war and slayers of serenity?
And God – what if the God, who in the Books offers, cajoles, punishes, threatens,
is actually the voice inside that urges us to live one with another
knowing that, in the end, we are one race – human.
If we, you and me, can bolster the best in us,
if we supported the pillars of humanity,
if we were safe harbor or lighthouse,
we could stand with and for each other.
We can rage at an action, without hating or hurting.
We cannot justify rockets and bombs with a schoolyard
pointing of fingers declaring, “He did it first!”
We cannot allow roguish gangster behavior
that would revenge and revenge and revenge.
And if we take sides, then let it be to lay our lives in the foreign land
and offer our beating hearts in lieu of their children.
Let our bodies be the barricades that stop the extremists’ violence.
If we pray from a distance or in the Holy places,
then make his home that far away space
and make her hearth sacred ground
and speak your peace standing in, not your but their, dangerous earth.
There is a mighty force in being Human when all else is extermination.
There is a saving grace in being Human when all else is shame.
And the cost may be my loss.
But this little ship becomes a fleet in the full sail winds of we.
My flesh is the boundary of my body, but not of my being.
I am the Master of my Soul and Commander of my Breath,
and the call to “lay down arms” must begin within me.
~
Observance (by Rosana Schutte)
Even the dead weep,
into their oatmeal the full-ladled spoons suspended,
into their hands, shirts, wailing at walls,making veil of hair to hide contortions of unspent sorrow wobbling a chin,teeth snatch shuddering lip as if that feeble dam will stop spittle spurting out.
The dead weep,
offering 30 pieces of coin for ceremony to remember,
“You will be surprised how many will show, especially the skirted ones”
Where are Eliot’s women with white arms and falling shawlstoing and froing under the watchful gaze of bald-pated rolled up trousers
descending, lamenting, drowning in singing and seaweed?
Dante has no rings for these whose graceful conversation
disengagingly creates beautiful reality flowing tantalizingly intimate
only to ebb away leaving frothy fragments for a curious dog to roll in or pee on.
“You trying to unbuckle me?” My smile invites finger’s chagrin.“Yea, you know how slow I can be. I should have done it long ago,” hands clasp my back.
That jaw so tightly fitted mine. Our bodies magnetize what could have been.
“You know I’m slow. Should have done it long ago” Regret flavours my ear.
O then, Ah now. Gone. Looked-for becomes longed-for.
I ache to wrestle the restive shadowy wisps that formed your lovely torso,
which moments ago was stone in my arms, solid on my breasts.
“Don’t worry my haunted apparition or worry no more, my dear.
I’ve unbuckle and unbelted, unhinged and unsnapped,
twangled every possible thread that could be ripped and torn and shredded and frayed
I have totally dismantled the altar of my expectation.”
I am decayed in Earth, and it wasn’t too slow or too late or delayed or aborted.
The unasked-for forgotten burbled, rose up, formed a face.
In each case hoped-for Belovéd cognition unrecognized.
All a celebration of loss. I stand in solitary conclusion,
self-exposed devoted imposition, impregnable and wise and sedimented.
And the dead weep.
The dead weep waterfalls,
coveting sentient second chances and the panting might have still been.
With rebuking eye to soft passages and unspent air, mouths of a thousand plus one,
“Dare, dare, dare and dare, please do dare, without a pause or hitch in the mind, dare.”
And when we don’t, when we sleepwalk in the unconscious,
they send the nightmare, urging, chasing, scaring out the wit,
“remove the twit that stops on a stair. DARE!”
All this happening elusive to our waking delusion, leaving bruises and bites,
swollen tongues and scat remnants of our journeying way.
Evidence that “I was here” though where or who was I is lost.
A stuttering remembrance muttering deserted streets,
mumbling learned prayer of break, resurrect, surrender,
not wholly responsive to signs of danger and despair, or symbols of otherwhere.
Answers every place, every pace setting a heartbeat
but the bag precariously perched on back
filled with requisite disappointment and revelatory obligations past
keeps us squarely balanced on the string thumbing between this world and that.
Lazarus how was it to finally be rested in that unbreathing slumber
only to be jerked back by a “come forth” from the Heart of the World?
Or were you terrorized there in the dark sleep and did you joyously rush to repeat
the inspiring, aspiring endless search to continue the inquiry?
And did you weep? In your brief flirtation with death?
Was there time, as Eliot says, between the taking of toast and tea?
No, maybe not for you, sweet entombed and returned.
No tears for you between stop and go again.
But the dead,
the truly dead, did weep.
Filling, unceasingly-filled basins festooned with mundane moments.
Ewers decorated by each life as it comes to know a thing is that defined assignation
as well as prophesied consecration of the fully awake. Consubstantive lives,
which, once removed from the dual duel, cannot be known again. Not in this skin.
And so, fiddling on the line between holding on and letting go,
a moment arrives, and bowels release the waste of life,
body stumbles and fails without catch or cushion,
every thing alters, refocuses, becomes verdant,
a novitiate perception informed by Senex and Valkyrie.
I am the story and the storied. I am the bound and floating loose.
And I am me in love with the Friend, and I am the Friend in love with me.
Between us is covenant, without construction, whether lungs are vacant or filled.
~
The Brotherhood of men
is smoking in a dark alley
contemplating the Peaceniks
next door.
Not that they don’t appreciate their efforts, but … no war?
Not an iota? Not a jot?
What would that do to the unemployment numbers?
And how else can the point be put across
to those who refuse to do it right?
Clearly they have to be made to listen –
and hadn’t history proved that
a sword or a bayonet or a bullet was effective?
Meanwhile, the non-violent activists
on the inside of the wall
were sure those guys out there
weren’t 10 feet from the building
because their fumes penetrated
the breathes that floated those here, crossed-legged, into a deep reverence,
and
the rat-a-tat laughter and comrade conspiratorial murmurs
punctured the no-thought inner space
where, just recently, ideas are born of reaching out
a hammer-hand gloved in soft-toned platitudes
to those lurking in dusky plumes.
Now, there is an opening salvo for sure …
~
A Picture of You (by Rosana Shutte)
I broke down today.
It was a picture of you that did it.
Your laughter, a joy so rarely captured in stillness.
Your passion for husband,
the way you embodied a rapture of sweetness.
I remember you.
That way of tenderly sitting in silence with another’s pain;
and a quiet wisdom you brought to the room;
the warm strength as you held my heart in the hearth of your hands.
I broke down today.
It was a picture of you that did it.
Blowing out candles on a cake baked with laughter;
your smiling at the devotion it was iced with;
You adored your children; delighted in their artistry of living.
I remember you.
The wee hour conversations guided by questions and smoke;
soft understanding and genuine interest encouraging the edges of self-knowing;
safety in a look out of the blue lakes of your eyes.
I broke down today,
It was a picture of you that did it.
Broken body, blood mixed in rubble, baby eyes staring open at death’s vista.
A mother’s chest agape with screams.
The hope of all ancestors aborted by bombs and vacant hatred.
I remember you.
That wonderment you personified, that spark of future you carried;
laughter unfurling into salty seas and peek-a-boo giggles;
a raw, new world you would lead us to.
I broke down today,
It was a picture of you that did it.
Igniting flames to evoke the lives extinguished in war’s ravage.
Railing at power to “hear my prayer” and cease the crazy.
Not accepting the demolition, annihilation done in your name.
I remember you.
The dignity with which you stand beseeching, amid the light;
so many stars in a dark night, shining your comfort across the barricades;
showing that brother and sister, no matter the deity, are love related.
I broke down today,
It was a picture of you that did it.
And I stand, witness to the flicker of your embers.
I remember you.
~
One Human Force (by Rosana Schutte)
What if the Promised Land described by Moses’ commandments (4:44)
was an inner realm and not a geographic landscape at all?
What if the Chosen People were all those who escaped the slavery of believing our inequality and the yoke of an understanding which
would see an other?
What if the Red Sea’s parting, caused by an action of realized faith, was really
the separating of the roiling waters of our depths so that we can pass through to the other side of our own insight, drowning words of war and slayers of serenity?
And God – what if the God, who in the Books offers, cajoles, punishes, threatens,
is actually the voice inside that urges us to live one with another
knowing that, in the end, we are one race – human.
If we, you and me, can bolster the best in us,
if we supported the pillars of humanity,
if we were safe harbor or lighthouse,
we could stand with and for each other.
We can rage at an action, without hating or hurting.
We cannot justify rockets and bombs with a schoolyard
pointing of fingers declaring, “He did it first!”
We cannot allow roguish gangster behavior
that would revenge and revenge and revenge.
And if we take sides, then let it be to lay our lives in the foreign land
and offer our beating hearts in lieu of their children.
Let our bodies be the barricades that stop the extremists’ violence.
If we pray from a distance or in the Holy places,
then make his home that far away space
and make her hearth sacred ground
and speak your peace standing in, not your but their, dangerous earth.
There is a mighty force in being Human when all else is extermination.
There is a saving grace in being Human when all else is shame.
And the cost may be my loss.
But this little ship becomes a fleet in the full sail winds of we.
My flesh is the boundary of my body, but not of my being.
I am the Master of my Soul and Commander of my Breath,
and the call to “lay down arms” must begin within me.
~
Observance (by Rosana Schutte)
Even the dead weep,
into their oatmeal the full-ladled spoons suspended,
into their hands, shirts, wailing at walls,making veil of hair to hide contortions of unspent sorrow wobbling a chin,teeth snatch shuddering lip as if that feeble dam will stop spittle spurting out.
The dead weep,
offering 30 pieces of coin for ceremony to remember,
“You will be surprised how many will show, especially the skirted ones”
Where are Eliot’s women with white arms and falling shawlstoing and froing under the watchful gaze of bald-pated rolled up trousers
descending, lamenting, drowning in singing and seaweed?
Dante has no rings for these whose graceful conversation
disengagingly creates beautiful reality flowing tantalizingly intimate
only to ebb away leaving frothy fragments for a curious dog to roll in or pee on.
“You trying to unbuckle me?” My smile invites finger’s chagrin.“Yea, you know how slow I can be. I should have done it long ago,” hands clasp my back.
That jaw so tightly fitted mine. Our bodies magnetize what could have been.
“You know I’m slow. Should have done it long ago” Regret flavours my ear.
O then, Ah now. Gone. Looked-for becomes longed-for.
I ache to wrestle the restive shadowy wisps that formed your lovely torso,
which moments ago was stone in my arms, solid on my breasts.
“Don’t worry my haunted apparition or worry no more, my dear.
I’ve unbuckle and unbelted, unhinged and unsnapped,
twangled every possible thread that could be ripped and torn and shredded and frayed
I have totally dismantled the altar of my expectation.”
I am decayed in Earth, and it wasn’t too slow or too late or delayed or aborted.
The unasked-for forgotten burbled, rose up, formed a face.
In each case hoped-for Belovéd cognition unrecognized.
All a celebration of loss. I stand in solitary conclusion,
self-exposed devoted imposition, impregnable and wise and sedimented.
And the dead weep.
The dead weep waterfalls,
coveting sentient second chances and the panting might have still been.
With rebuking eye to soft passages and unspent air, mouths of a thousand plus one,
“Dare, dare, dare and dare, please do dare, without a pause or hitch in the mind, dare.”
And when we don’t, when we sleepwalk in the unconscious,
they send the nightmare, urging, chasing, scaring out the wit,
“remove the twit that stops on a stair. DARE!”
All this happening elusive to our waking delusion, leaving bruises and bites,
swollen tongues and scat remnants of our journeying way.
Evidence that “I was here” though where or who was I is lost.
A stuttering remembrance muttering deserted streets,
mumbling learned prayer of break, resurrect, surrender,
not wholly responsive to signs of danger and despair, or symbols of otherwhere.
Answers every place, every pace setting a heartbeat
but the bag precariously perched on back
filled with requisite disappointment and revelatory obligations past
keeps us squarely balanced on the string thumbing between this world and that.
Lazarus how was it to finally be rested in that unbreathing slumber
only to be jerked back by a “come forth” from the Heart of the World?
Or were you terrorized there in the dark sleep and did you joyously rush to repeat
the inspiring, aspiring endless search to continue the inquiry?
And did you weep? In your brief flirtation with death?
Was there time, as Eliot says, between the taking of toast and tea?
No, maybe not for you, sweet entombed and returned.
No tears for you between stop and go again.
But the dead,
the truly dead, did weep.
Filling, unceasingly-filled basins festooned with mundane moments.
Ewers decorated by each life as it comes to know a thing is that defined assignation
as well as prophesied consecration of the fully awake. Consubstantive lives,
which, once removed from the dual duel, cannot be known again. Not in this skin.
And so, fiddling on the line between holding on and letting go,
a moment arrives, and bowels release the waste of life,
body stumbles and fails without catch or cushion,
every thing alters, refocuses, becomes verdant,
a novitiate perception informed by Senex and Valkyrie.
I am the story and the storied. I am the bound and floating loose.
And I am me in love with the Friend, and I am the Friend in love with me.
Between us is covenant, without construction, whether lungs are vacant or filled.
~
Open, Capable and Shining (Stream of Consciousness by Sam Frank)
And I'm struck. I feel a fatigue in my chest. A warmth. It's disbelief and discombobulation and I can't begin to understand. And I just talked so much but everything was listened to, and it may have even been fair. Historically it seems insane but logistically it was so necessary.
CAPABILITY
(Ignoring the fact that our lives are not given meaning by where we work, for a moment we will pretend that it is:)
You get hired and that is the initial indicator that you are wanted, that what you bring is wanted and desired and appreciated. It's so validating that you can use your skills and get money to survive. (Again, we are ignoring the injustices) But even still it's not enough. It's not enough to get hired. Because then you need to prove yourself. Your work needs to be sustainable for your placement and for yourself. You need to make the bonds as you feel are appropriate. And in some lines of work, you need to be able to feel so connected, that your colleges become your family. Because you see them more than your family. And you may have picked your work, but you did not pick them. Just like your family.
And after today I can't believe that I am capable. because I was tested, so much. And after the dust has settled I am being met and my opinion is being honored and even after that (!!!) my opinion is STILL needed to determine best steps. I have not tarnished my reputation- I may have strengthened in. I proved my humanity and my emotionality and my dedication to the agency and- as this is all about- my cap.a.bil.i.t-ee.
So I think I'm stunned. And grateful. It's never been this way before. But this is how it goes. This is how it is supposed to grow. This is how growth happens here. When you're not an intern and you tell yourself that you know it all but you so don't. What does feedback look like and how do you want it to proceed? In what way today have we made ourselves available for growth?
It's more than capable. I think I'm shining like I've always wanted to. And there's fear with that. But there's also curiosity. And my blood sugar is perfect. And it's been such a day.
I get to do it again tomorrow. I really don't want to. But I can take it wherever I want it to go. And I will be open. Because I am open. And I am capable. And I am shining.
~
And I'm struck. I feel a fatigue in my chest. A warmth. It's disbelief and discombobulation and I can't begin to understand. And I just talked so much but everything was listened to, and it may have even been fair. Historically it seems insane but logistically it was so necessary.
CAPABILITY
(Ignoring the fact that our lives are not given meaning by where we work, for a moment we will pretend that it is:)
You get hired and that is the initial indicator that you are wanted, that what you bring is wanted and desired and appreciated. It's so validating that you can use your skills and get money to survive. (Again, we are ignoring the injustices) But even still it's not enough. It's not enough to get hired. Because then you need to prove yourself. Your work needs to be sustainable for your placement and for yourself. You need to make the bonds as you feel are appropriate. And in some lines of work, you need to be able to feel so connected, that your colleges become your family. Because you see them more than your family. And you may have picked your work, but you did not pick them. Just like your family.
And after today I can't believe that I am capable. because I was tested, so much. And after the dust has settled I am being met and my opinion is being honored and even after that (!!!) my opinion is STILL needed to determine best steps. I have not tarnished my reputation- I may have strengthened in. I proved my humanity and my emotionality and my dedication to the agency and- as this is all about- my cap.a.bil.i.t-ee.
So I think I'm stunned. And grateful. It's never been this way before. But this is how it goes. This is how it is supposed to grow. This is how growth happens here. When you're not an intern and you tell yourself that you know it all but you so don't. What does feedback look like and how do you want it to proceed? In what way today have we made ourselves available for growth?
It's more than capable. I think I'm shining like I've always wanted to. And there's fear with that. But there's also curiosity. And my blood sugar is perfect. And it's been such a day.
I get to do it again tomorrow. I really don't want to. But I can take it wherever I want it to go. And I will be open. Because I am open. And I am capable. And I am shining.
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