Well, change happens.

Sure it does.

Once upon me again, it hardly draws the cloak closed before tugging me out the door into nether worlds, familiar & daunting both.

One card reader says nothing to do. Stay where you are. The next says come for sure! You’re losing leaves.

Being a Libra, I’m all for change. Being a Manifesting Generator, there’s little more familiar. I have more than one friend who does this: perodically pulls out the plastic tubs, clears the car & loads up, counts out the coin for gas & food & lodging, ties the rest up in a pocket, tugs down their hat & hits that unfinished road. I have far more who stay thru boredom, endings, health crises, Fear, matters of upbringing & cost.

Nothing, however, is safe in the world – this world’s not meant to be so. It’s meant to be the playground in Universe, the launch pad for all sorts of learning.

Some of what I’ve relearned lately:

the business model (such as it ever was) is dustifying & I never saw the blue beam hit.

boredom is a heady motivator for change. sitting at the archway of the mousehole watching for the cat means never enoying the Cheddar somewhere in the room.

old friends are a totally wonderful renewable resource, forgiving even when they’ve sent you off with a blown kiss & a fond wave. and it’s most wonderful when they open their arms & welcome me back!

dancing never stops when you keep the music playing.

Sufficient. One can only renew the Splittail Starbucks card so many times. Last week they never even put the spoon of chai in my chaitealatte, so I had steamed milk at the beach. Wah! (Business model, anyone?)

I have written this poem before & it always stays elastic to allow more growth & change, discovery & nuclear fallout.

I found a tiny sign that said “the best thing about this job is that my chair spins.” I put it on my desk & only one person took note, out of the many-many who sit there impatiently waiting for the iceberg that is The System to pick up speed just for them.

When I get cynical, I get cranky. When I’m hungry, I get mean. I’ve been hungry for a long time & I’m not saying this meal will stave off starvation, but it will feed that most elusive stomach of the Soul.

T or C, here I come again. Back to your dusty streets, your slim food pickin’s, your dry heat wavering from the WPA concrete blocks. I hear you’re torn up. I saw the new street map with the earrings of a rotary to either end.

But there are those low-growth foothills to wander & the Rio Grande hasn’t changed course much. The red-wing blackbirds still poke out from the reeds with a trill. I hear the lake is now a puddle one can walk upon without the miracle of walking on water anymore. I’m fairly sure the same weed-ways abound. There are memories around every bend.

Thee is music to be had & friends to be held, poetry to write, hotbaths for the tenner & a canary-themed room to cheer my green-fed eyes.

Maybe I’ll get Mary to paint a palm tree on one wall as one last flicker of Florida.