Tender webs

Up at 3am this morning, thinking of details and emails and lists and inky possibilities of poetry and song. In the dream I was surrounded by a great gathering, an ocean of people. Some were celebrating our book, others were just there among the multitudes. But there was celebration everywhere, like a great New Orleans street party, and we Sisters were the guests of honor...

Too much at the desk. I turn to the redwoods outside the deck, hear Jean rumbling around as the day begins. I've been working for hours now, and the day's come light. It's three days before we leave. Someone emails me from the midwest to say that a friend to whom she sent "our book" just emailed her from Philadelphia, writing that there is a Sisters Singing reading in her town next week. We find ourselves within a multitude of tender webs–without lists, members or formal structures, simply organic wholes of friendship, shared history, caring, support. That Sisters Singing is gifted within these webs is a perfect part of the book itself. Each day grace falls to me through these webs, and I feel it: the tender grace of Love, something in a pure form. People hold each other with such beauty. Again and again and again, and all day long, this happens. It's true. It's constant, and common. It's human. And it's our future. Tender circles of love and concern. Threaded out so that we open our arms to broaden and sweeten. In the dream, the multitudes sway like a sweet warm ocean.

All next week we'll stay with various friends and Sisters, parts of the web. Someone's uncle in New York City, old friends in Asheville, newer friends in Philadelphia. We'll live inside this web as it extends and connects. Easy. The arms will be open. We'll know what to do. There is something about an embrace that melts what is singular and lonely. We'll all put out our arms.