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Dear friend,

This is written while sitting with a friend on the edge of life; from heart-blood to ink on the page.

– Jane Callen – 1.28.15


Why (The Who of You)

The things I don’t know teach me far more than the few ideas I lightly (hardly) grasp. That everything changes so there is no knowing. That light lives on, growing, connecting, when all else falls away.

That sorrow lays its heavy pillow on my eyes but the light finds its way into my cracked heart.

That joy arrives unexpectedly – watery reflection of evening sky, tiny frog escaping my footfall at dusk beside the river. Peepers sing me to sleep. Is he among them?

That sorrow keeps its own clock and grief, too, arrives unexpectedly — and (though my mind cannot accept this, my heart knows it to be true) there is still beauty.

The blessing of the sun having risen, if only for a single day, as the old Indian teaches us. Gratitude if we spent that day well.

That you are leaving.
That who you are will always remain.

 

 

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