Direct Pressure for a Wounded Heart It’s June 21 st in New Zealand (the 20 th in the US) - the shortest day of the year in the Southern Hemisphere. I’m unaware of both facts as I pedal my bike to the Scout hall to meet the Joggers for a run up the Mount. Antarctic winds gust against me as I plow forward. I feel deflated. Today, I want my Old Life back. The one with Sean in Spokane. Barring that, the earth can swallow me like a snake devours a mouse – a single jaw snap transforms the mouse from Creature of This World to Thing That Was. Do I really want to be Someone Who Was? No. I just don’t want to feel like this. Real Life has invaded my island paradise and it hurts like hell. I’m grieving again. Fresh sorrow ruptures the sutures of my wounded heart. The bleeding that had long ago been stanched has resumed – gushing and spurting, making a mess of the life I’ve largely reorganized. I don’t want to feel like this. I recently took a First Aid c...
When you look like your passport photo, it's time to go home. - Erma Bombeck