This day is unique. The people we encounter, the words we speak, the exact way this day unfolds will never be repeated.
Sometimes you have a bad day. I have a go-to place when that happens.
I refuse to say good-bye to most anyone these days, to friends who move away, to co-workers who change jobs, to my cat who is dying.
Taking a generous swig of coffee I wait for the light to change at the intersection of Hamilton and Leigh.
Somehow I landed on a pontoon boat, in the middle of Clearlake, with four complete strangers, four dogs, and no idea where I’m going.
I don’t like change.
I think it is odd when one of my senses highjacks my day and becomes the lens for which everything else comes into focus.
Sometimes I miss the significance of a small moment.
I’ve done a lot of cleaning in my days and the interesting thing about this is how focused I remain on the parts that are difficult to scrub.
“A mother’s arms are strong when her child is in danger.” (Dream, Sr. Prejean, Dead Man Walking)
I love ritual.
We are a story people, mere pages in the book of life
#7. I am still developing. Be nice.
I have a daily alarm that sounds at nine in the morning and nine at night to remind me of my mama’s pill schedule.
Sometimes you just go for it, because if you let fear determine your ability to live fully, you’re screwed.
I sit in my backyard, commiserating with my beautiful magnolia tree, deeply rooted in the western corner. This is the space I return to, time after time, to think, to lament, to listen.