•  In conversation with a friend or loved one, discuss what it means to live with a wound. What does it mean to you to face your feelings and not drown in them? Share a personal example of doing this well and an example of doing this poorly.

•  This is an inquiry into long-term friendship. In your journal, tell the story of someone you’ve journeyed with over time and how your bond has changed through the years. Describe what holds the two of you together. Describe three things you’d still like to know about this person. Go to them and honor the bond you have, and ask them what it’s like to be them. Then ask your questions.

•  This is an inquiry into personal trust. In your journal, tell the story of someone you lost trust in and how this came to be. Try to be honest about your part in this. What have you learned about the nature of personal trust? Later, in conversation with a friend or loved one, discuss how you might repair this trust. If that no longer seems possible, discuss how you might establish trust more thoroughly in a new relationship, applying what you’ve painfully learned.

•  In conversation with a friend or loved one, tell the story of something that’s taken a long time to blossom within you.

Mind Sweats

MIND SWEATS

Thank you for holding me in the night.

At unexpected times, the silence seeps

in like water soaking through. When I

am well, this is exciting, a form of

waking naked in the world. But

last night, I felt dispensable.

As if life were a secret we didn’t

know we were keeping, a whisper

tucked near the heart, like an envelope

with special instructions: open only

if death seems imminent.

As if to follow someone with more

confidence would make a difference,

when our grasp on life falls apart

and reassembles repeatedly

like the hold a throated river

has on its debris.

In my fright, I know I’m going to die.

Not now, not soon, but know, the

way seeing all those images on the

news, one finally catches in your

throat, and you know that some-

where it is real, somewhere

there is only air between

the camera and the pain.

Last night, there was only

air. And you held me

in the dark.

We huddle in our love

as in a tent on a shore

watching our fears roll in like surf—

building, crashing, thinning—

knowing the swimmer

who withstands the pounding

can make it past the breakers.

First Treatment

FIRST TREATMENT

We cried in the car last night.

I vowed never to give up, while Ann,

in a moment that made us feel eighty,

said, “If it gets too much, you can.”

How much is enough?

How much scouring before the face

is worn of its features;

the mind, its beliefs?

How many times can a heart