Member Poem

No known non-profit has ever profited from as much as compassion profits a body.
Compassion profits a body with a sort of joy
a sort of release, momentary, from yearning and a sensation instead of fullfillment and even relaxation within the self so as such to reach self enjoyment even and freedom to trust in myself and what feels good.

The relaxation of truly having practiced my own best self.  

The relaxation of believing in living for what feels true for myself and not spending my time worrying about others are thinking about.  A waste.  

I want to be my own self.
I have a hurt so dour.

I have been feeling more hopeful though.  

More sustainable in my relationships and ability to lean on myself and my own comforting self for advice and succor in a dry, sometimes mean and creepy land. Bare bone hopes blowing dry and brittle as tinder fluff caught on cactus. Tight critters, raspy skins, skittering into shade.

Well, the last time it rained my inner land wasn't so dry that it couldn't absorb the moisture.   The cactus all bloom now and I dare let myself feel joy and enjoyment for being myself and living this life that I have part created part surfed part suffix part prefix from.  

Night settles down and large moths and bats, night pollinators,  fly about.  Incandescant.  Landing on a plant's flowers with sometimes such a puff and a flash.  Vibrating in the air like a hummingbird's staccato wing beats.  

I settle down and lay with my inherent disappointment.  
That's why I could possibly want to seek out what I don't want to seek: so I can be with both sides of myself; all parts of myself as good and equal.