Uff

God grant me
(If you can and will)
The serenity to accept
(and by that I mean not just in word but also in mind)
The things I cannot change
(Which seem to be the only things I WANT to change)
The courage
(As in, whatever makes the will stronger than fear)
To change the things I can
(A lot of things, even as a starving college student)
And the wisdom
(Why must it be accumulated out of so much work?)
Always to know the difference.

(frak it. I know the difference. It's not helping me ACCEPT it, except in intent.)

Rachel, Rachel...

I went for a longish walk with Rachel to clear my head. On the way we went to the Carmelite monastery and walked among the olive trees.

"The ground's so soft - I don't think I've ever been on such soft ground." (Under trees anyway.)

"Maybe they do it because it's holy ground?"

"If it's holy ground, maybe we should take off our shoes. I should take off my shoes. I really should take off my shoes!"

Rachel makes me happy, because she lets me feel these things aren't so weird. (After all, she does them too. And more.) My feet sank in the soil like in sand, but it felt nicer. She took pictures of me because she likes to have people in her pictures. And we talked a lot.

"You know, this may be one of the few places around here that has no connection to Jeff. Except now it will, because I was talking about him."

"No it doesn't! It's holy ground, it doesn't count! It's like nothing - but not."

"Like confession?"

"Like confession! It doesn't count! It's just - itself. The grove."

I imagine, from her words, the trees sort of swallowing up whatever is said under them - cleaning the air of it's impurities and the thoughts of their uncertainties. It's a nice idea.

We also talked about her and Jim and about a few fairytales - I told her how the two version of East of the Sun, West of the Moon are different. We speculated on whether they were written by men to keep their women from questioning them or women who mourned the mistakes that made them lose their men.

It was a good walk.

Also, I seem to have gotten chocolate on my shirt. How sloppy.

Waiting (Visual poem)

For the young, the perception of time is dense.
It always takes forever.
Waiting is torture.

I am young.
And here I sit, wondering.
All my thoughts strive to action.

I do not know peace, though I know calm.
Calm is conscious, peace is not.
I _choose_ calm.

My body won't.
It screams to move and change.
It tells me I must, now, or I lose my chance.

But I fight it, in every woken moment.
I say, not now, not yet.
Or we DO lose.

It won't hear.
It rages on in firey, blossoming glory.
It screams that I failed, will fail, will always fail.

And I, I resist and I douse the flames with tears.
I think on what I have lost by giving in.
On what I still might lose.