Monday, January 2, 2012

Journaling New Year

I measure my life in 20 year increments.
The third ...20 years ... was spent trying to forget the madness of the second. But nothing is more vivid than that madness.

Dear Lord, I am afraid of death as I am afraid of you.

Old friends have died, and more are yet to die. It's not that I miss being with them. When they were alive we were rarely in touch. I wonder at them falling into death. They sing "holy, holy, holy" whether they want to or not.

When are the indignities of life more painful than the indignity of death? Not yet. Not yet.

This is the year of "when I'm sixty-four". I remember, when I was nineteen, trying to imagine it. Well now here it is. Of course it's different than I imagined.

I get in trouble when I scold. Scolding usually turns around to bite me.

When I was about 8 years old I used to make small worlds of fairies in the woods. I'd make tiny people out of paper, sometimes out of clothespins, and I'd set them up in little houses made of twigs, leaves, funguses, moss. I left them in different places in the woods so the lumberjacks would find them.

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