I have what feels to me to be an important post to write.  It feels too important, so important that even thoughts about trying to write this post feel too intense for me to find what I need inside of me to write it.

As I sit outside penning on paper these words (a process I rarely use these days of computer keyboard speed) I realize I have lines of words to say that are not tangled up with one another but rather seem to coexist in a kind of hierarchy in time and space.

In other words

What I wish to say is alive in me, a living part of me.  Multi-faceted.  Multi-dimensional.  All are a “one thing” as a whole.

It seems that to write I would have to break this whole apart.  Crumble it into pieces in my hands so I could then find a way to pull what IS whole — through into a different world — this world — where the pieces would take the shape of words.

Mere words.

Inconsequential — words.


In some ways I would rather just know this wholeness exists in me — just the way it is.  Do I fear that if I tamper with it I will break it?

I tell myself, “Linda, if this is whole and right and true, you cannot break it.”


I wrote two emails to my daughter this morning about breastfeeding.  She gave birth to a beautiful healthy son last Friday.  Today — right about now — they are leaving the hospital and going home.

(They live 1,700 miles away.  I will travel there in about a month to visit.)

I wrote to her about a perfect world where the best possible actually exists for a newly born human being.  My daughter and her son are in that world right now.  From here everything in that newborn’s life moves forward as he interacts with the world outside his mother’s womb — the only world he has ever known — until three days ago.


It is here as I write that words disappear.  I exist in this body with a feeling I don’t want to try to describe to myself — or to anyone else.

Time seems to stretch backward to the beginnings of our species.  Time reaches forward far, far, far into the future of how we will become.

At every single point along this line a baby is being born to its mother.

In this world that I wish only to be aware of at this moment, every perfect baby is being born to a mother who takes care of her child perfectly.

At this moment I know this is possible.  It has always been possible.  If we look at the best of our past, the best of our present as we anticipate the best of our future we know that within our nature we exactly know what best is.  We have been designed this way.

All that impedes, interferes with and interrupts the best that we are designed to experience from the moment we are conceived — and born — means that some form of trauma is present.

Humans are designed to be flexible, to respond to minor disturbances that always happen to us in this material world, and to adapt.  Change is life.

There is a range of wisdom for us here where what is truly ‘not best’ can be easily recognized so that in a world where best is accepted as real, ‘not best’ can be prevented.


As soon as I contemplate what ‘not best’ can do to us I see what really is “a fall from grace.”


A newborn held close in its healthy mother’s loving arms — yes — perfectly — is in a state of perfect contentment that exists beyond time, yet in it.  It exists in a world beyond words.


Every human being deserves to know what this feels like because we need to.  I personally never experienced anything close to this with my very sick Borderline Personality Disorder (abusive) mother.  Yet I find in these moments I know what this state is because I know my grandson feels this with his mother.  Nothing I could think of would make me feel more deeply happy.


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  1. Ah yes, as a guitar player myself I have a great appreciation for the spaces in between the notes.
    Over the past 18 months of not working and ‘recovering’ from hip surgery and subsequently remembering the 40+ year old cause of the condition that led to the complete disintegration of the cartilage in my hip, I have been constantly challenged to take one small step in the right direction every day. Some days that step was barely or not at all perceptable, but staying focused on taking a small step every single day is the only way the symphony will ever move towards its wholeness.

    And I wanted to say congratulations on your grandson. Here’s to new paradigms!

  2. I enjoyed reading your blog today.
    I always feel a sense of awe at how the way that you write makes me feel all of the things that I have never been able to adequately express about my self.

    I wanted to share an excerpt of what I wrote last night that speaks to that feeling of needing to write, but at the same time, felling as if its the last thing in the world that I want to think about.

    ‘Everytime I think about denny, I stop writing. I absentmindedly get up and pace around the house thinking my angry thoughts … as if some part of me is fiercely resistant to analyzing the who, what, where, when, & why’s of how I came to be so intensely angry at denny.’ So instead I wind up muttering the same old stories that i’ve been telling myself over and over and over again.’

    This too shall pass, I tell myself.

    • Yes – I understand. Today I chose to trust that which did make it into words knowing that ‘the whole’ remains just that – some-where, some-how else. And this is just as it should be.

      This makes me think a little bit about how it might be for composers who write ‘movements’ in their music. Each movement in our writing is a part of our wholeness, no matter what we say, no matter what we write about – or what we do not write about.

      And just as with music the ‘beat’ matters – the silence in between the sounds of thoughts we can put into words.

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