I would wear my sweaters and curl up to watch Jaws

These mornings my heart falls over inside, as it has done almost everyday since I've returned home from Paraguay because Paraguay and a million other things that have happened this summer have pulled my heart out into the open. Where it is immediately affected by what is going on in the world. And it falls over from joy, pain, laughter, love, and surprise all the time.

But these mornings it falls over because the air is cool and I wear my sweaters and break out my oversized sweater slippers and curl up in the hammock and read like I would when I was sixteen, summer mornings lying on the couch at home with the wind blowing those long drapes.

Sunday night we had a discussion on the front porch of Hot Chocolate House. Apparently some philosopherorother proposed that women do not think in words, they (words) are a construct of men and that women have just subscribed to communicate verbally in the language of men. Because we (women) do that kind of thing, I guess (here I make a weird, inexplicable face). That's probably a simplification of what he was saying, and whatever it is, it's a simplification of something. There is something that is more than words and that's what I think in. 
But words, they go straight to my heart (that falls over all the time now).

I used to worry about having my heart in the open because I have a tendency to expend myself so much in loving everything that maybe I could get worn out and use up all my love and things wouldn't be special anymore. I stopped worrying about that a year or two ago, I've never run out of anything. But. But some words stay safe. I made the decision a long time ago that there are a few things that I will keep treasured and hidden and special for just that final one relationship that my secret romantic self hopes is in my future. I promised myself that I would never share my favorite love poems with any male outside of that...ugh...marriage. That may sound trite, if I weren't me and I were reading this I would roll my eyes and gag, but you read Neruda or Borges and tell me if you find trite dribble. You don't. That is all. I have told you what is in my secret, sacred corner of my heart that is now mostly completely open for the world.