Beloved Reader,
Those of us who have hauled the bare bones of our psyches across the deserts of crisis, loss, and illness know intimately the silence of an inner landscape that has been emptied of life.
Only a body full of nuances can become a land full of song.
As I sit here listening to the deepest part of myself, I hear too the emphatic voice of the valley below. I remember - not with an intelligence from some evolved mind but with the wisdom of a primordial body - that the wind is like the human soul. They are both gatherers of the many forgotten things in our lives that have been lost in a drought of great ache.
