i write this from the west porch of a home on a hill in santa fe, new mexico.  to the right are the sangre de cristo – the southernmost mountains of the rockies. to my center and right, in the distance, is albuquerque. in the foreground is the arroya. it is desert, but in august, the cacti and tumbleweeds are overcome by the sage green yucca and the bright yellow brown-eyed susans.

my heart has been on a journey towards freedom for sometime now. i have tried all kinds of things to set it free. i took long walks in the woods by myself. i sat and stared at the waves rolling in. i stood on the edge of the rocks and wished i could just step off onto the sea and walk into the sinking sun. i drove at night, windows down, radio on, and a cafe mocha. i laid in the field and watched the falling stars. i sat in the pink thrift store chair and cried. i read in the hammock by the stream. i wandered around downtown after dark.

i wrote some, but not like i used to. because writing is the art of my soul. it makes me feel naked. and i just could not handle being bare before the world.

i have been set free.

and so here i am, ready to show my heart again. reject me or read me, it does not matter. because he has said to me, “you’re mine. i have not rejected you. i never will. nothing else matters.”

“who is this coming out of the desert, leaning on her lover?”

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