Her walk walks like her walker.

Heather spent the last several months in wild seclusion building whatever she could from thoughts and feelings. She swore to use nothing real, as what is real is already there and does not need highlighting. She spent most of the time not knowing what to do. She felt continually frustrated and shut out from whatever it is that can be termed reality. From her own self she begged and pleaded for answers, but what could come in frustration but the slow dance of static and building tension. Over and over she dropped her current approach and did something different. Anything different. Heather stopped the fostering of frustration and stepped back, allowed the pot to cool and look at things differently. Not make such a rush of things. If the present conundrum stopped being of paramount importance to solve, she found that she could be patient, let life roll on in a different way.

Prophets and storytellers could promote their answer and predictions, but little did she gain that was lasting from these. For these things came from outside of herself, and while they may have been startlingly accurate and open the heart of things, they were born of someone else's moment, not her own. Answers from another may provide a kind of support, but if they are not born from within, how can they truly steady her legs? Help from another provides a different perspective, but let it be known that what is counting breaths and feeding hints and impulses comes from within.

The race with others is a race short lived. Continually Heather found herself drawn away from others, away from their crowd and their noises and their organized lives. What became her life really had very little to do with groups and herds of people.

Attention. Please direct your attention to the following items: Yourself. The world. Your neighbor. That dog. Your brilliance. An automobile capable of sensing the rain. An hour of wretched solitude. The moment of waking. A fear worth its telling. A pattern broken forever. A chair with three legs. Pillows for comfort. The gears within, turning, propelling.

Heather had to weed out many ideas, many influences to get back to her own. Such was her life among others. Everything has an influence, a hidden grasp. A dropped opinion is a new opportunity for fresh thinking. A growth spurt will come here and there.

She found things so delightfully, playfully elusive. If the dropped hints ever became rages of warning, she would be ready. For she had tuned her ears to hear.

If she cries and you hear her wail, please do not misunderstand. It is simply the passing of something no longer needed.

She is a cloud surfer. A daytime wanderer. A rhapsodic riddler. An emissary from parts without parts.