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Hello my new blog!

This will be the blog of my sabbatical year — starting today, May 25 2011 until August 31 2012 — that I’m devoting to patching up the holes I’ve worn through my life since the last sabbatical. By patching the holes, I mean doing what I’ve left undone and seeing where that takes me: in love, in work, in health.  FoxyWithTheTruth will be my record of each day’s stab at joy, integrity, and progress to closing the gap between desire and reality.

That’s me, happy!

Last night, after five days of travel, across the continent, from west to east, across the ocean, from west to east, by three planes, three cabs, and a Fiat Punto (manual), I hung back from sleep,  not wanting to miss the unfolding of the night in Tuscany. The window is open, the curtain swells and sways with the breeze. In the black sky – stars; in the black garden – fireflies, macho Italian fireflies strutting and dipping and zipping and gliding. Bat squeak. Owl. Two dogs: the big one leading with a chesty bass, the small one countering in tenor. When the crescent moon slides into the sky, at three or four,  shadows pop into relief. Sometime later, a bird launches a fistful of notes in intricate rhythms, at ten second intervals, like the muezzin calling to prayer. I remember Denbasar,  the fragrance of cloves and green things rising from the damp earth at dawn as we circumambulate the rings of Borobudur, stumbling against the carved wall.  I remember Florence, the pungent cocktail of diesel, espresso, and sun-baked marble at seven in the morning as we trudge up the 463  steep  steps of the spiral staircase that tunnels to the top of the Duomo, where we step out into brilliant golden air filled with swallows.  I remember mincing along the path of the spiral labyrinth in Ojo Caliente’s dusty garden, between Santa Fe and Taos, far in space from the sands of the Pacific, and in time from New Mexico’s Jurassic and Cretaceous oceans. Circling then, and circling now, in my mind’s eye, collecting the memories that rise up in the night and link the people I’ve loved and love who are a part of me and apart from me.

The back of my neck tightens into a knot, wild swirls of light dance under my eyelids, and the blood rushing in my ears tries to tell me a secret I’m not ready to hear.

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