i'm going away for the week-end....not for work this time...(yeah!)...just for myself...
i'm going to a writing retreat. i've never been to one before, so it's a little intimidating...but only a little...and, hopefully, this week-end i'll have some fun and relax...

i encountered this poem a while ago, by a writer named joy harjo. i put it up in my place of work. it reminds me of good times, of family, of friends, of sitting together in conversation, of time spent measuring the passage of our lives through the stories we share...

"Perhaps The World Ends Here"

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat
to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it
has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the cor-
ners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be
human. We make men at it, we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our
children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as
we put ourselves back together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the
shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for
burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering
and remorse. We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laugh-
ing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.