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Wednesday, December 16, 2009


Nothing is calling me outside this morning. There is a list on the kitchen bar; a list in ink, written for me by another me.  Written at a time when my mind was racing with ideas and my body energized for work.  Not now.  Now my feet are cold. My mind is cold.  There are things to do, but I'm not the one to do them right now. Maybe later.  Right now I want to lean against the wood stove until my thighs burn through the denim; until I cannot stand there one second more in my effort to avoid the list.   I start the laundry then go back to the stove.  I read yesterday's funnies then go back to the stove.  In a valliant effort to become mobile I have built a fire in the second wood stove, hoping to warm my innards and that they will, in turn, light a fire within my muscles and joints urging movement that is not yet suggested. 

Through the bedroom door I've seen the sun, yet it must not be the same sun that yesterday evoked life from this very body - the body that implores me, "Curl up and read!" "Curl up under the covers!" "Curl up!"
I must not listen to this voice! No more mollycoddling the person avoiding the list.  It is time to move, to listen to the sun. Time to respond to its beams as they tickle my mind, awakening it, urging my limbs to activate.  I will become part of the world, no more content to avoid it.

Where is that list?

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