Something comes from nothing.

Like the miracle of Moses parting the Red Sea, Rex unexpectedly offers four days of Jeb time and suddenly I’m a woman in an empty house with open passage.  My to-do’s get checked and crossed.  Mornings are spent in my turquoise kimono with golden sun and extra time for words.  I spend my evenings at the River House with long-time friends and belly laughs.

We make our way into the Village where the sleek restaurant/bar pulses hip, downtempo beats over bodies milling in black.  I see humans hoping for minor blessings.  Servers ready to go home, hopeful for big tips.  The guys at the bar scanning, wondering if they’ll see a new face in this small town.

A local divorcee faces a woman squarely, four knees barely touching.  The hand with his tattooed wedding ring will reach to brush her in a gesture.  He’s eager with the prospect of leaving the past behind.  His hands planting themselves upon her with more certainty as their glasses empty.  Patrons smile approvingly, they know everyone needs love.  We all seek saving graces.

courtesy of Wikipedia

I drive myself home and ponder the inexplicable.   The sun miracle at Fatima.  1917 in Portugal and thousands of people brought to their knees as the earth’s central star danced the sky with multi-colored hues.  Their bodies blazed in penetrating heat.  The multitudes were pressed to the deepest humbling, at the mercy of the cosmos.  They crossed themselves and readied for certain death – this was the end of the world, for sure.  And then, just as suddenly, the afterglow of stillness.



The sun hung, just like it always had and they were left to mingle amongst each other, reverberating in phenomena they could not fathom.

As I steer myself to my abode, I sing off-key and loud with Julian Velard‘s Bjork cover tune.  My low-lit house greets me, where I’ll leave the dishes in the sink for another day.  It’s time to rest in open spaces.  Slip beneath soft sheets.  There’s no fanfare here.  No walking on water.  But divinity is present.  I feel the miracle of the greatest something in this nothingness.


“as soon as it was named
it ceased to exist”
– Miriam Sagan, “Spiral Jetty”

I don’t want to write about it.

I could deflect and try to describe the pregnant pause before letters meet the screen.  Hands near my jaw, suspended above the empty keys that sit patiently waiting.  An in drawn breath anticipating exhale…But that description would be a clever ploy to avoid what hesitates to be written.

This whole expression thing started out simply enough.  Following a thread.  Chronicle the daily (often banal) moments and try to find a gem of deeper meaning.  I’ve written about goats in heat, The Boxcar Children, and paltry WordPress statistics.  I’ve taken photos of plastic soldiers hugging and dead, maimed snakes in the road.

Pushing myself to find the power in vulnerability, I’ve even pulled the Superman move, peeling back cloth to reveal my tender heart (that’s ‘S’ for ‘Strength’).  Ok, ok, I did that.  I survived the naked telling.  But do I now need to write about my womb?

I don’t want to write about it and that’s what makes me suspect that maybe I’m supposed to.

Maybe the story comes in pieces. I’ve got twenty years of reproductive history and all the ways my womb has shaped my life.  Maybe these fragments are not in chronological time.

Perhaps it starts with today’s second opinion:
Statistics are good:  Chances are 98% benign, 2% malignant. But you don’t know which group you’re in.
The only way to know for sure (and get rid of it) is surgery.
There’s nothing to be done to stop recurrence (unless you want to remove your last remaining ovary).  This is in your genes.

From the mouth of an intelligent, medical doctor, is the suggestion “use your intuition.”

Intuition says that in the next three months I will not be undergoing surgery.  Intuition also suggests that Life is offering me an opportunity to learn something.

There is no book published, that opens to page 29 and reads “Jessica, this is what you are to do.”  Intuition says the book that tells what I did do, is yet to be written.

If I want to dissolve this growth and do not want to have surgery than I recognize that I am moving into the realm of miracles.  I’ll leave some room for those.

Miriam Sagan posts her poem inspired by Robert Smithson’s Spiral Jetty and one line flames like a fire.

courtesy of Wikipedia


“as soon as it was named
it ceased to exist”

I’m seeking a name.  Maybe writing brings the miracle.

(read “Spiral Jetty” in its entirety at Miriam’s Well)