Figlets have appeared on the back tree. Jewel-like camas and comfry blossoms open. Soft fennel stalks push skyward.

I am in pain every day, in sorrowful grief. This is for reasons I've shared and for some I haven't. This is the way life is.

I think we members of humankind (possibly of plantkind and animalkind as well) seek validation. Years ago I would talk with friends about this. My agendas roamed in search of the good word of somebody else. Or I wouldn't mind finding a narrative, a book, a movie, or even a painting that seemed to tell me, yes, it's okay you exist.

Some days I simply dreamed of hearing it in a loved one's voice. This surely would suffice. But the true voicing I sought of course couldn't be forced; it had come free. Impatiently, I sought to know I was valid by trying to build my own narrative structure. Often I became a slave to the endless task.

In recent times I've wondered. What if the shape of reality, the sane voice rising from soil well-composted and deep, has always been a structure existing? A vibrating trueness, though in ignorance I tilled and wept and left it bare.

I think perhaps it is only as I've recognized a future and a past that I have been able at times to tremblingly access being in the present. Actually fitting. I don't do it often, and I never "find" this without help. Help from above. From beyond. Yet as close as all the soft surgings past the back step, my clumsy toes pointing there, being drawn to it, to being real.