Paying Attention: Night Whispers

I just finished reading Heather King's latest post "The City: Cavafy". She writes about her past while recovering from alcoholism. Her words put me into a reverie.
Sometimes I still dream of Merrimac Street, and the loft where I spent the darkest years of my alcoholic drinking, where I first experienced the deep, deep loneliness that formed me, where I got sober.
I remember my own dark nights and many of them still recur as I write my way to wholeness. I came from a prayer meeting that reminded me of the cross and how it stands to save and not condemn. How the love that bled from tortured flesh, nailed hands and a pierced crown flowed to win my life redeemed.

There are days when I am illuminated by these thoughts of faith and the spiritual life. And there are days when they are just empty words mixed with the battle in my head. I remember them tonight because today is one of those days when I feel my faith is working for me. It's one of those unexplainable things that just happens without much sense. Just like how work issues occur beyond your control and you scratch your head and bite the tip of your pen because nothing on your desk gives you the answer you seek. I remember them because I am grateful that relief can be found just around the corner.

Tonight I feel quiet after an eventful day of discovery. New people. New writing. New stories. Happening all simultaneously in each web-space of this technological sea. We're all isles apart and our words stretch to reach another kindred soul tapping their screen to unearth much needed realizations from keyboard clicks.

I wonder how many writers tonight face a blank wall or an open window looking at their neighbors lot or an empty street lit by yellow light.

It's dark and I start Nov. 20 awake at 1:02am. Still rummaging through my drawers of thought I try to see if I can weave words the way I used to twirl my pen. If they can still flow from my mind to my lips. To my fingers. To this screen. I'm paying attention to my breathing and my heartbeat. A 250 bottle of Antonov Apple mix a drop dry. Calming down to a solitary nightcap.

My mom's 4th chemo cycle starts at noon. And I'm slipping into sleep in a few minutes. I'm trying to hold on to the hope that today gave me and write myself a heartsong tomorrow.

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