Cold. Cold and alone is where I begin. Alone and surrounded by the noise of the masses. They see without perceiving me, I am just another body in the press. Don’t they know I am naked? Don’t they know I am brave? I cannot remain here, unmoving, or I will disappear. I tread slowly, on purpose, to the sound of my breath. The breath that keeps me going. Sometimes it’s hard to breathe in so much noise and closeness and I reach for an empty meadow, the empty meadow behind my childhood. A creek of fresh water laced with spearmint that grows in patches, fresh and cool like newness. I am bare here and still Seen. Seen by The Perceiver… who knows a courageous spirit. My feet slow and cease to care where they tread as the meadow grasses dance with my fingers and the sun warms my head, the only sounds those of the wind, trees and creek. What noise they do make!… but they are the noise of perceivers, some of which approve, some of which don’t, all of which love and speak the words. …And I am ok bared, my heart open to them, because they are bared as well. The Perceiver sees us each and loves us with our windy ideas and tall, strong hearts swaying in them… even our gurgle-y voices… and always, always our quiet souls which sit and listen and long to be Seen, to be laid bare and loved.