A ramble...

I am just realizing I’ve been attacked by a dementor. It’s a perfect illuatration of how I feel and what I’ve been through just recently or presently.

It’s, unfortunately, not unfamiliar. I always think the best of people. (not all, not the super maniacal mega powerful, who’ve never known what it is to be human humans)

It takes me awhile to give up. To hear myself amid the noise. The loss and heartache. The inability to reach another.

I feel and am quite likely wrong, that lying and manipulating is a choice. Anyone can weave a tale. I guess the downside of weaving a tale is believing it to be true. Which I have found to be very easy.

Someone was trying to scam me once, fortunately rather badly. Six months ‘he’ or ‘they’ were back. I made up a story, nothing cruel. Just a tale of a woman who had been in an accident and was temporarily suffering from memory loss and blurred vision. My fictitious daughter, Anna, helped with the texting.

The story worked like a charm. But I missed Anna afterwards and wondered where she had gone.

How easy it is to believe the story.

I seem to be a certain shade of blue. Indigo, turquoise or ‘Lisa blue’, what my mom called french blue on account of my eyes.

The dementors seem to be prowling everywhere these days.

What is the antidote, especially when the dementor came very very close.

Cuddling up under cozy covers for a good cry? Or maybe getting warm and sitting by candlelight, listening to the sweet silence here. And setting an intention aka making space for something beautiful.

Relighting my own internal fire of love amid the insanity? Imaging a world where humans heal each other in the beautiful simple ways they can? Where silence is gentle and kind. Where grieving is a prayer of healing.

The hermit thrush is singing as the light grows dim. It is the sweetest clearest song I’ve heard, coming from deep in the woods.