Just Still

Just quiet. Just thinking. Feeling a little still. A little waiting. And flash, I think of the purple-red hearts we dissected in school and "that's me on the silver tray, all naked and soft and waiting," and I remember that all of our lives feel like waiting (we all feel that, but I keep on forgetting somehow) and my waiting is becoming and so little is really the concluding I think it is, and all is balancing, and moving on, and up and over, and forward ho! and circular, not linear; circular Ang, and sit still for a moment, please? And so much becoming just eventually bleeds into moving and then, the long awaited concluding, so that as the lovely Ani says "we never see things changing, we only see them ending." I keep looking for those endings, impatient with the gently bleeding change, thinking I would prefer to sever off a limb, or an organ, maybe a heart, but for these still moments when I blink slowly and move cautiously and think carefully and manage to sew in a stitch or two.