The martyr in the field


Being the martyr sets in when I tell myself it’s a luxury to rest, self-indulgent to feel fried. Then I run through a field with small white & purple flowers as ground cover and remember being a child in the early summer and wonder: is it a luxury for a child to run in a field?

The brighter the light, the darker the shadow; the darker the shadow, the brighter the light. Are these the same statement?

My friend tells me, if you don’t take care of your body, where will you live? Today I ate two maple creemees in a row, alone. They were sweet and smooth and soothing. Self-judgment lurks.

Today a friend told me she sometimes feels jealous of my marriage when she reads my blog. And then we laughed and spoke of having real, multi-dimensional lives, none bigger or smaller than each other’s.

Today I listened to a young army corporal talk on NPR about his tours in Iraq, how in a crowd he feels best if he’s wearing headphones – “not so alone that way.”

Every day I spit over my shoulder, warding off the evil eye, the veil so thin between what I think is hard and suffering beyond anything I’ve known.

Let me lie down here, lie down here in this field of flowers, lie down here and pray for all the mothers and the fathers, lie down here and weep, lie down here and rest.

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