Tuesday, May 21, 2013


You know those times when it seems someone crawled inside your head, took a good look around, took some notes, then crawled out and wrote about it all in words that you wish you could hammer together so expressively?
Well, I haven't often.
Today I read something that made me feel that way though. 
I'm not quite at the end of what was written, where this person is. But that she got there is exciting to me. 
I almost say it gives me hope, but I usually shrink from that word. 
It can be, as Emily Dickinson puts it:

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

yet it can also be a little monster with razor teeth. 



Here's the article that provoked me to be here at my keyboard sharing this at this ridiculous hour when I ought to be sound asleep in bed:


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