I often trust my instincts. They are not those of the light; those things which light up for me are not what one generally finds in books, unless they are fairy tales.
Just now, for example, I walked in a field of grass, by the river; my archangel’s ground. I walked barefoot for it is largely without noxious weeds nor blades hidden too freely in the grass. (Although under the trees, I suggest caution.) Yet I stubbed my toe on a sort of cup: Green of a shade one rarely finds of late, worn. Did it hold something sticky-sweet, there in the heat of an earlier afternoon? Underneath the sweet, what other taste? Was it mine, or his? No matter; I put it back.
And yet I find that my compass has been altered in my time with Li. I like to think of my northern star as unalterable, and perhaps it is, but the needle is a little bent.
This is the price of love, and comfort, and care. I have learned certain conversations, and their echo at times prevents me from listening as well I ought, particularly when I am tired, or doubtful.
It is that doubt that returns again and again: The argument not had. When I do not know why it is he felt there was cause to abandon our families, home, and our bed, I guess. I guess not only for the past, but for the present. I wait for someone to step in front of my archangel and inform me of some sin I have committed.
It annoys me. I like to love uniquely. I love my archangel because he is himself, not for any other reason. I wish that I could be newer, like a blade of grass, and less like a tree, with knots and old wood where there was a branch shorn, and bent under the wind.
And yet, I am as I am and may offer only myself. It is a lesson in humility.
These thoughts are why I am silent often. They have little new or insightful, for most. I come late to it.