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Friday, December 23, 2011


I am at my Writing Friday group. Jan tells us she had lymphoma years ago, a mass in her stomach, and now it's back.
I envision her torso like a high-ceilinged cathedral, tall, fat, butter-colored tapers flicker, shadows shift on the walls. Incense bathes us in lush smells.Two rows of pews of tightly-grained wood (softened by years of hands and asses) flank the sides.
And vibrations and massive sounds pour out relentlessly from a majestic, unseen organ: through her blood, her fascia and soft belly, her now-pressed spleen, and the architectural wonder of her spine. They bounce off her firm kidneys, her supple, supine liver.
And in this high and arching place, we all come, to bear witness at this mass, demonizing nothing, accepting all: each breath, moment, each tone and cell.

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