Sometimes I feel like a mechanic

for random things.

Ever attentive to the function,

movement of

Devices, finding out how you, or ‘that thing’ works

Observant and experimental

I shake only gently if I must

Powering on and off is easy for my handle

I do it with my identity all the time

There’s not much I’m attached to in a sticky way

I’m sort of “wait and see” and allow and watch.

I ask “what small thing can I do to encourage?”

Using the trimtab of Buckminster Fuller

I make a little tweak to this thought or that thought. I say a sentence on a page, or I give my orchid a trickle of water.

Never overwhelm her.

I shimmy the device without breaking it, bringing gentle energy into my palms

and letting it flow.

Dear broken things,

Let me be your whisperer

I can hear you when you talk in silent digital

data.

I know how to pulse you, and when to push and grind, like my vitamix I work with raw matter

tasting along the way.

Mechanics don’t taste, 👅 doctors used to.

But we can smell a leak and test if it’s water or something worse.

We know how to patch things up, and reboot computers. We understand simple pulleys and levers.

We invented the wheel.

You get to be

44.

No more expectations

for what life ought to be

You get what you are given

and you hope it sets you free.

The challenges have been

Relentless

You never knew you were so strong

and yet you need to be stronger ever

more.

This last year might be the most

heart-breaking, heart-wrenching opener

And yet, the year is young

and I am young.

Young enough to recover