God, death, and beauty. Also, do hawks cry?

The weather was damp, close and grey-cool yesterday in East Anglia. I could feel it on my bones and the humidity salty upon my skin, almost like a hand caressing my cheek. It has been a fair pace of time since I let anyone close enough to caress my cheek. Since I could lean into someone whose arms were around me. I've been reading Akwaeke Emezi's new novel - a romance - and it's juciness reminds me of desire and connection and it's so delicious and searing. They write and write and it feels like they are rapping up against the shutters I've locked against my own fears and wants, my own desires. Amanda Shires has claimed this a Hawkgirl summer and I want to be 'all in.' (See why I don't play poker?) But I have to sit back and wonder in my morning keen, do Hawks cry at every little thing?

Somehow, I was reminded recently that 'being who you are is God/the Universe/Source's gift to you; who you become is your gift to God/the Universe/the Source.'  But how do we when know when we've 'become?' 

Having so many encounters past selves recently, I am in the midst of balancing my own scales.  Being both my own witness and mutineer, my own soulmate, stepping into beingmy own true love, my own desire, it's sometimes more than I want to bear.  I am solitary by design but I don't know that I would claim it as my nature. I'm probably more of a key looking for its lock, or vice versa, than I would care to admit, but I can oil my own hinges.

On Sunday, during my 'Mama-bear' time, I tried out the local flotation spa.  The Dead Sea is a destination I shall make it to but on the meantime, I figured why not indulge my inner Ab-Fab fangirl. 

I didn't really know what to expect. The room was as warm as the water and I opted for no music. Next time, maybe I'll bring a playlist and takes me. The hour moved apace, I made peace with  ruminating loops for significant chunks of time, letting go of the various kites I carry, not worried if the strings were tangled. 

I slept last night more deeply than I have in the last 5 weeks, maybe months. My dreams were not torrid or hypersexual, I didn't wake up feeling devestated, overstimulated, or unrested. I haven't fallen down any usual rabbit holes, and - whilst the day is far from its end and there is not nap immediately in sight, I don't feel as addled as I would normally.

I listened to the sound sand makes through an hourglass today, my eyes closed, decompressing from sensory overload. It is probably the only time I'll have to myself outside of sleep, today, that 5 minutes. The sand becomes quieter, the closer it gets to the end. I wonder...is that true of us, at the end of our last journeys? 

How many more will I fell left, journeys? Will I get a pink slip near the end or will it be a horrific surprise? Will it be fire, drowning? A blow to the back of the head? 

Other random thoughts that keep twisting lately around in my brain but without the ferocious speed I normally feel them:

*What if I die being buried alive? 

*How do I climb out of this well?

*What was the motivation behind the *Mesopotamian creation of the first shekel?

*Why is housework so challenging?

*Why did I stop reading romance novels?

*I need to file my US tax extension

Up in London, my new friend A comes to the house with me. We walk through the park, we have a mooch around Crouch End, have dinner. Her dog Betsey is a delight and makes me smile even as I long for Miss Jones. Betsey was Miss Jones' best friend. It's with no sense of irony that their friendship sends me wondering on my own Betsey. 

And I wonder so many things. More koi in a pond to look after, should I stay at Heathrow the night before I fly out? When is it enough to just be myself in a moment, for myself? I just don't know how to answer or quiet these words on loop, sprialing like a rollercoaster, outside of that blissful quiet dark of a makeshift womb.