It’s about Loving Me

heart in Ink

Today is Valentine’s and I awoke to find a voicemail telling me that I am a very loving person. I’m seldom acknowledged as such and struggle to take it in.

As a  proper former nun, I should be allowed to consider myself nice, considerate, respectful, deferential, and even thoughtful. But loving? I’m not sure why it moves me so to take it in.

My tears flow like rain after a long drought, moistening and loosening what feels tightly bound within. Perhaps it’s the space I’d so long ago begun to reserve for what I had hoped would be filled by God.

Maybe I’ve finally begun to fill it with me.

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in the Grove

grove 2

A grove of trees consoles me from the opposite side of the park outside my patio. Five trees as one. So, even though I feel completely solitary on this day of golden light, I remember. It’s been said that we’re never really alone. Especially not in a world of more than a billion people. Neighbors reside so closely above and beside me that  draw my blinds in early evening. Reminds me of the convent where I struggled with feeling alone while living in a five-storied building with two hundred other women. My excuse then was that we weren’t allowed to talk to one another, except during brief periods of recreation. Otherwise, we observed Silence.

I yearned to talk.

To be seen and heard.

We stood alongside one another in rigid line, bumping elbows. We obediently did our best to ignore one another and stay focused upon an invisible god.

Though I no longer have to, I keep Silence again and live alone with my two cats.

Except for the grove of five, who keep watch over me from across the lawn.