It begins with a sigh.
Or a song.
A whisper.
A laugh or a cry.
A low cloud of dust at my heels as i tread the journey path.

It begins in the ordinary-ness of a day.
Then it rises.
My hands searching,
reaching for that piece.
the frayed cotton,
the flax linen,
the tattered silk?

What will bear the message well this time?
The texture of yellowed pages?
And how yellowed are they?
Creamy white
or browned with smudged ink?
My next steps lead me often to
a gray and simple sewing machine
where patches and pieces are stitched together
with purpose and care,
freedom and delight.

And sometimes to the 80-year-old Royal typewriter,
with dense fibrous paper in hand,
a weight and lightness so sublime
it is as if an angel pressed it with the
strands and seeds of Eden’s garden.

I type the good words flowing through me –


When all is complete,
I step to the side of the journey path.
I rest my hands, my heart.
I hope.
I wait.

Are there others on this path?
Will they pass by?
Will they see?
Will they hear?
Yes. Some will.
Some will see.
Some will find


In the stitches and scraps
some will hear their own stories told,
an echo,
that same sigh.
Some will connect
and share the journey path for a moment.

In the parting then,
a quiet breath,
a steady step,
strength restored,
a vessel poured,
on and on,
darkness to dawn…

On and on…

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