There are many letters that never get written and letters that don’t get sent. This morning in the four o’clock time which is holy and expansive, I write to you.
When I read you are with me. When I see bare branches, feed the birds, watch ripples on the lake, smell wood smoke, tilt my face towards the sun, watch light move through the woods empty of leaves, hear the pop of a fire, close my eyes, breathe- you are with me.
You are in the turn of the pages, in the ink, in the dream, the closed musings in silent morning darkness, you are in the unspoken words, you hear what I cannot say, you understand when there are no words, you are with me on the other side moving back and forth between one kind of time and another – as I move into quiet which is not silent, you are with me as light beckons me into day and darkness into evening.
I am blessed knowing you all these years, having you with me, along side me, inside and above me – having you wherever I am across time and the boundaries of place – here with me.