Sometimes, I lose the thread of myself. I forget what I am - what this is.Something in the world bursts into flamesand I am unable to get to the control buttonsquickly enough andI fall.It happens less now. But it happens.The nest that I’d just finished weavingout of truth and memory and faithcrashes to the earth;another fragile, heart-made thing, lostthe castle that we built too close to the shore dissolves beneath the wavesthe lights that we depended on flicker outthe casserole of organic vegetablesand brown basmati ricethat I assembled so carefully, so tenderlyis abandoned on the stoveIIWe'd just hung a string of white lights across the salvaged casement window which my husband hung, suspended on wires, from the ceiling.I'd just launched my next kite (I mean, class) into the world.I'd finally found a tea that I liked enough to stick with.IIIWe get attached to these thingsthese notionsof how things areand should beof how things workand should workWe forget that these wallsthat we place between things -good and evil;sanity and insanity;safety and wilderness -are as fragileas the skin that keeps the blood inside our bodies from rushing outIVWe keep ourselves so busy withworkingeatinglaughingarguingand balancing the checkbook raking the leaves taking out the trash and sinking into tubs filled with warm water;that we forget -that we arefloating in the amniotic sac of a dream.Plus, we are always walking into and out of rooms.VWhen I fell(like every other time that I have fallen)I panicked and,though every explorer knows that in wilderness, the first thing one must do is establish compass points; and build a little lean-to against the rain,I took off runningwildly, madlytearing my clothing on branchesscratching my legs on sharp thornsDesperately callingWhere am I?Where are you?This is what happens with exile.When we are lostwe reach for the people we loveVINight falls.God separates the light from the darknessand the haunting beginsthe bill left unpaidthe friendship left alone too longthat damn phone call that I never quite have the time to makethe crack of a twiga rustling at the perimeter of the campfire.How do we know anything?How do we know if the things we cannot see are even there?How do we know if what we can see isfriend or foe? Good witch or bad?In ancient times, the people were never sure whether the sun would ever rise again. They lit fires, told stories, huddled together, hoping.We do that now, too.Huddled around the blue glow in the living room: our window onto the fire burning somewhere a little too close to here.We lean in, listening -watching shadowy figures move through the stagesof grief.VIIWhat's going on?Is this the edge of a black hole, sucking creation into nothingness?Is it a white one, spinning us into new shapes made out of luminous threads of light?We won't know until it's over.VIIIBut even so, somehow,today,I woke up in the bright room,and the light spilled in through the windows that seemed to be everywhereeverywhere.I am never sure how I arrive here (though I suspect angels are involved.)I opened my eyes and found myself holding onto my thread once more (was it here all along?)washed with a gratitude so brightso deep.Thank You for this place,this room,this home.