Category: Posts

A Day for Me

A day for me

No chai by the bay today. One lingering basket of laundry, folded damp & left on the bed. One trip to the shoe store but no Earth Origins I like. A longing for ice cream – an old afternoon treat – & I told myself to watch for Friendly’s as I passed it along the other side of the highway. No ice cream, but I have blueberries & yogurt at home.

A walk to the development across the street, down their narrow winding path outside the privacy fence. Beautiful plantings to either side bracket the path which suddenly opens into housing with no fences, the community center with its full frontal garden, the water feature with a starburst spray. Time to do qigong. Time to balance.

Time to sit on the marble bench & find the single blue shell, the tipi-shaped shell.

An organically rainy day. Drops borne on a slight breeze or dripped from overhead. Melodic & irregular, Crows wing overhead with calls to each other. I sit outside & watch the storm forming overhead. The white to steel-blue, to dark gray in gathering intensity.

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Your Face

Lately, faces have become familiarly iconic – as much as logos once were. Wasn’t it fascinating to see the VW logo & think it just so cool.

Our vision has shifted & faces are so much more than emblematic. My face is like that to me – I am accustomed to seeing my face in one arrangement. Of course it changes, but the changes last a very long time usually, due to what I call good genes.

 The differences were not so obvious as they are now. Or not on the level the changes are hitting. My face is changing shape, elongating, really, due to dental work. Years of neglect & unavailable care have rendered my senior teeth every memory of Trident I ever experienced. So, some of the dental care could continue as a after-death experience if real repair were to be enacted but that’s another blog.

I am quite happy not to be missing front teeth like some caricature of an old woman (and actually quite lucky.)

For me, this type of change also involves a change of character – which part I have not figured out yet. What I know is that at times I now whistle a bit due to fewer teeth. I hope to be the only one hearing it. I force out the rest of the sentence & shut up.

This benefits me so much as I now listen.

This is leading overall to a different silence: a voluntary silence. By that I mean not one imposed by retreat or grief when less penetrates. I mean a chosen Silence that keeps my lips shut against the words battering the inside, which usually begin with, “I don’t have time for this!” I know now as soon as my mental ears hear this phrase, they are to send up flares to the cortex to cease & desist immediately or at least ASAP.

I have decided consciously to become a milder, gentler me, this coming from a shift in cosmic frequencies, taking shape on my new face.

I have come to age in an age when time has slipped its clock-bound boundary. While declaring myself ready for the New, I am hiding behind this ephemeral curtain of the past, holding it in front of me, this musty & disused veil. I yearn to sweep it away & grab onto the New chugging through like some petticoated heroine, parasol flying inside out. I don’t think it is a fear; I might think it more nostalgia holding me in place.

It’s a testament to lack of hope & faith, no wonder my charity is sporadic at best. Guess what starts at home? Anybody?

I sure wish you luck & love during your changes. I wish you what your heart will hold, of good cheer in good measure. From me to you for it always returns.

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Decisions

I have come to another crossroads. I recognize this one too. Of course, traveling the same roads for so long makes each crossroad uniquely memorable. I don’t remember much of my life, but my perceptions were not & still are not standard.

I have given much to corporations (when these are called lifeless or soul-less, this takes no consideration of the people who occupy the space.) There has always been authority in my life – a know-so-much-better. Now I flirt with that & achieve it at times. Now that I’m at the Zen part of the mind – that step I climbed so hard to attain, struggled with really. Still struggling as that part says “judge not.” Usually right after the instantaneous response of “judgment accomplished.”

My past surfaces unexpectedly, like finding a specific seashell on the beach, maybe the black & white one, looks like dipped-in-ink. And finding another right after. Understanding the Universe has no other desire than to please me & that desire serves both in Beauty. It is as much pleasure to give as to receive. I watch as Youniverse continuously offers me an opportunity to wish & watch & wait for fulfillment. Youniverse outdoes itself every day.

I want to choose the resting phase. I want to be lazy, to get comfortable walking, to catch up, keep up effortlessly. I want that “effortless effort” mojo all over me. I want to be shown the way, led by the hand to life & lifted into it like a baby handed into a carriage.

On the one hand, I have wanted to take up a leadership spot. On the other, I want to (wah-wah) have my own way, sit down, eat chips & think about going to the beach.

I am of an age where I want to express & expose what I know. I don’t want to deal with any consequences or fallout. I like smooth sailing. I like routine. I don’t want to have to re-summon up the energy it takes to harness up every morning. I like to be able to set aside moments.

I love what my job provides: my gorgeous view, my “catbird” seat, my memory tested daily. I love knowledge & will mop it up like a dry cloth absorbs water.

I need to become Switzerland, difficult for me with my Mediterranean core. I need to step back three at times, immediately see the others’ reactions & honor them while holding mine in balance with them in that exact instant. For everyone, what is needed most is to hold the space where others can be themselves (until I can get my turn, of course. ) I am not permitted to create much of that space, or am I?

With the right leadership, I can move forward into that Tunnel of Prayer once again. It is familiar but I feel I failed it once. I have more respect now as I see it for the intensity it is, for the formidable power of prayer in a time of heightened frequency. At one time I wanted prayer to define me while now I only want to define prayer for myself & others. I want to reach up a level to redefine myself & not have it be for how I might think others perceive me.

How many Paths to Mastery have I declined? Is this true entropy or some programmed DNA (unnatural) to hold me back? Once I looked for “blocks” to have released & was told they will release when you are ready to love whatever it is they block.

Am I there yet?

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Church Kitchens

Church kitchens are a combination of dollar store half-price bins & yard sale Pfaltzgraf, quite the statement on remnants of a Lost Civilization. Roadside collectible shows go away – let’s just inspect the contents of church kitchens!

We have eight million toothpicks, fourteen pepper shakers & ½ of a salter. We have a huge tub of ice cream (vanilla) with two scoopers, and no one eats ice cream in Florida during the chilly season.

The refrigerators are full of inedible cupcakes with giant swirls of pure colorful cane sugar on top & a bite of pretend-it’s-your-grandma’s icing. However, it’s grandmom on Alzheimer’s.

We have six tubs of butter. Oat butter (what?), plant butter (what?), Land O Lakes in three sizes, & vegetable butter (what?) Bet our ancestors never thought “progress” to include such – it was hard enough to get salt on the table in the “auld days.”

We have a sea of bland silverware including three-tined forks & spoons with odd handles obviously the last of That Which Did Not Sell tables all over the flea markets. (“What’ll we do with this? I know! Give it to the Church!”)

A recent Christmas party has left us with more to add to the collection. A forest of plasticware vies with a stack of disposable baking pans tucked for invisibility behind the coffee cups we don’t use. 99 wine glasses – & we do not serve wine at our church for any reason – fill two cabinets I dearly want to put something else into. But we have nowhere to put the wine glasses.

We are victim to renters who feel each & every one they must bring a box of plastic forks as some esoteric ritual of entry. Um, suggestion: just put a buck in the kitchen basket instead. Yesterday I passed along the guilt to Goodwill, sending over a huge trash bag full of plasticware. It’s my sin, too, when these reach the ocean floor, but I’ve done it behind my own back, yeh? I don’t get to the ocean floor much, anyway.

We have the empty ice bucket with the scratch-off label saying “Do NOT put this back empty!” on it. We had four bags of English Toffee Coffee (what?) which I surreptitiously trashed yesterday. I cannot believe anyone on earth wants English Toffee Coffee & the aliens are bringing plastic spoons when they land, so no need there. (These were donated by the fella who one day brought us the whipped cream.)

We have four jars of CoffeeMate which I did not know was still even in production, except perhaps in some Iceland communities where they drink tea. We now have an entire 6’ shelf of unmatched, variously-sized napkins & a ministerial preference for uniformity in Sunday settings. We have four cans of whipped cream total for Sunday consumption.

A Church Kitchen literally runs on sugar. Inedible cookies vie with the refrigerated “cupcakes.” Even the kids who come through ignore the sweets having been warned their heads will fall off if they eat this stuff. We do have one minister who raids the room every day for a treat; however, she’s switched to pretzels. We have no pretzels.

We have a tubular package of hamburgers from last July 4th which I will also surreptitiously toss one day when the freezer burn on them pushes on the empty ice bucket. Mixed in with all this in the freezer are ice packs for emergencies, two first aid kits with no bandaids, a bottle of Manischewitz vying with four jars half-full of pickles for shelf space.

It’s kind of like what you’d find after nuclear winter in a looted market. The Country Time Lemonade which our congregants avoid in favor of the Arnold Palmer mix seems to grow a can of the powdered chemical nightly. Don’t even ask about the dishwasher pods which were incidentally put on re-order with Amazon during Covid Closure.

One shelf has nothing but cheap [plastic] containers in the hope someone will put a few of those burgers in for take-home.

CONCLUSION: Try not to eat out of a church kitchen except on potluck day when you can see the provenance. I now have a secret which I’ll tell here, in utter confidence, to the entire world: Generally, on Sunday the two hotpots with regular coffee are consumed religiously while I throw out the decaf so carefully made earlier… I was refreshing the bin of coffee packets & noticed someone put decaf in the regular bin so everyone has been drinking decaf for the past month. Shhh! I’m not telling.

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Christmas Day 2023 Sequence (Poems)

Let the wind in –

Let it curl my hair & offer me that breath which is proof of life.

Let there be a bit of woodsmoke on it to sing in my nostrils,

Let my ego drop away

Begone

For just an eager minute.

Let me turn into the next me, wrap that around

My chill at growing

My reluctance to leave the warm nest

Where all I do to be fed is open my mouth & call.

Isn’t the wind a wonder?

I am emptying my head as fast as I can,

Emptying it of this reality: these thoughts

I am mounting motors I know not how to use: Dreams

The hot-air balloons of flying away …

I take no direction

I simply take off

Alongside the wind.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

I once taught these things,

These rusted lessons I found in the damnedest place,

But who wants to learn these?

What matters is I took the topic & turned it into a way to serve others

A knowledge of unremembered interest

In a library class.

That was a lifetime ago – that was in Maryland.

That was jobs ago, a career moved behind me now.

Half sticking out of the shadow bag, catching on things.

I will teach again, for that is what I do; I have a lot to say

That would interest some to know.

Time occludes my life when it only occurs in one dimension.

I grow in so many.

 = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

Before I go under…I am worn the next day

But I birthed the poem.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

Poems come on the edges of sleep, riding that tide I thought

To lift me from the beach.

I am removed, outside mine own reality.

Just beyond that I thought truth to be.

Only that thought washed up & curling in the glistening sand

I must go look; I cannot let it wash to sea, it is mine

I claim it: I own it: I remember it. Be warned:

I fight for that which is mine & if you claim this errant thought,

I will snatch it back.

But you are busy with your own beaches & deserts & skies

I leave  you to your tides, your errant ways, your tickets to ride.

 = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

I am emptying the trap of dreams

I am replacing the bald facts

Laid on calendar & table

With these ideas, this ephemera, this eponymous

Rainfall, each drop begetting its own growth.

The dreams clatter out on the counter:

Some scuttle away on more than four legs

Others land, heavy, solid, well-thought-out

But no longer fitting, become animé to my

Artfully drawn Reality.

I mark their fall with crayon, the outline subject to rain-erasure

But not my fault dreams change on the morning.

 = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

It isn’t easy to talk about the future of Mankind

We could go either way; any way; the other way

That one the women are always whispering about:

World Peace.

Whoa, whoa, I know what you’re saying here

You’re putting your hope in the backpack for the Warrior

While your dream curls up in the basket of the Mother,

Its full lips reaching, trembling with love.

There is no other way:

The fight for life begins when

you put up your own.

 = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

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O Florida!

I remember that pale sky of autumn when the sound du jour was rattle of leaves. Not happening here. I figure FL should be the “clammy state” & not just for marine life. 

Things are resettling at work. Now it’s a drill & somewhat of a bore, but I have time to do other projects of organization, must must prioritize & sort. Place was a total morass of files & is about half a morass. Heh heh.

Slept well after watching a very complicated Chinese soap opera. Boy, those royals are a drain on the economy. 

Woke to sort the kitchen cabinet. My roommate brought home a ‘Ninja’ cooker to air fry. Guess she’s gonna air fry air since she eats nothing much needing cooking & does 90% of her cooking at her work where the fridge bulges & you can only work with the first thing on the shelf cuz every square thought of an inch is occupied by 3 jars with a teaspoon of something protein in each. She has cooked, um, 3x since I’ve been here except for two batches of vegan potato salad for picnics. The interesting thing about vegan food is no one eats it but vegans. I know, don’t mock, but once you mark it “vegan”, it is safe from being eaten. We leave with this much & come home with two tablespoons missing from the dish & enough vegan potato salad for 3 weeks if anyone ate it. Christ, it was boring when prepared, after 3 weeks, Beyond Burger additions do not help.

I plunged into Detwilers yesterday looking for berries, but tired of strawbs & blues were priced to where the zeros wrapped around the containers. So I got other stuff & this time I shopped their meats which are mostly from their own farms & of course not being commercial, taste funny. But hey, no taste. I can eat it! I saw a piece of steak – probably should not share – but it looked so good & I heard my body groan. So I came home with the perfect vegan onion (really?) & two chunks of extremely tender meat. Ate my old brown-edged onion so as not to disturb perfection & sliced a pepper in that, sliced the beef thin, Goodness, did I enjoy every bite. And then I found gorgeous jade-like Pesto to yum on.

This morning I have bacon! And one quiche shell so will make a perfect quiche. I thoughtfully pushed some guy’s buggy along, as he watched me do so, got 3′ before realizing that wasn’t my cart. Neither of us was embarrassed, it’s Florida, you know? We kind of grinned, I kind of bowed my head & said something about being on the other side of the aisle, oops. Checked out at $112 with enough food to refill the fridge, move over all the veganish stored in the freezer (of which none has disappeared since I’ve been here as only the potatoes do). I seriously must make a menu to use the stuff up. I’ve got news, the only way to remember anything is to go shopping when you’re hungry.

I indulge. 

So realistic Friday has become Saturday & I am tingling with the thought of going to the flea market on Tuttle again. Must be Fall!! The yellow flags snap in the hot breeze, sun hats & ball caps are out, I have polished my new & lovely dark glasses & the lemonade stand is grinding away somewhere in the afternoon. Time to examine tiny treasure, thimbles, stem arms with minute hinges. O Lord, the bargains groaning on the tables! And there’s a flea happening over by work, too, at a church which could be New Old Treasure gleaned from whatever underground stasis room passes for a basement here. I might find … wait for it … an alligator head! 

I ended the PO box yesterday. I guess I’m moved in. Home alone as roomie away in Ft. Myers bringing back the first mattress she ever truly loved, best in the entire known universe over which she has lusted over since spending the night at her friend’s home years agone. Not sure where the old one is going but perhaps there’s a corner at some flea market unfilled. 

V., her office mate, don’t get me started – one of those “I love V. BUT” is how anything about V. starts, yeh? runs a floating storage unit, like some riverboat casino, you never know what you’ll find it it but guarandamteed if it’s supposed to be “right as you open the door” it will be in the darker recesses of the unit rubbing the Arkansas border, with four empty boxes, one birdcage, two litter pans & a baby gate slung in since the last time “up front” was a euphemism for accessible.

The Ninja. Didn’t this start with a Ninja? Why name a cooking appliance after a cult of disreputable assassins? The Ninja is stored in the back of the bottom cabinet now. The 16 nesting bowls (one of which is used for vegan potato salad twice a year) are stacked off to one side, the knife holder is carefully facing away from the opening… the 47 plastic containers saved from every meal out since plastic became a viable takehome medium, are trash-bagged, well, recycle bagged. She made the (mistake?) statement “we’ll never use all those, might as well get rid of them” in my hearing. My radar heard “incoming!” & I found the single paper bag in the kitchen & filled it immediately with these. There is never enough Tupperware unless suddenly it is in a box of overflow for V’s storage unit. 

No wonder the American world is awash.

Ah well. Let’s keep rowing. I need to find room for the two bottles of soy & 3 cans of beans on my side of the cabinet. The day is always dangerous that begins with knocking the coffee filter off your cup at the edge between counters where all can run calmly down to unreached depths. Might be a basement down there? I think I heard an alligator gnawing coffee grounds. 

love,

c

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The Fringe Element of Genius

Genius is the real Breakaway Civilization. It’s not the place where the rubber meets the road, it’s the place where the tires leave it, fold up under the vehicle and you hear that Star Trek sound track as this fades into a streak of meteor. I never liked that piece of music. I remember once reading how someone thought “boldly go” was the name of the destination streaked to. I didn’t understand how such a cool show could have such a poor scant of music as a theme.

I digress.

Genius is the point of the lever where the world turns, tips, tilts. It is a scream in the psyche as an idea takes off or lands in the same nanosecond. It’s where nothing really matters besides being a human at the top of your game & realizing everyone else really IS following behind, dragging little red wheely suitcases. It’s an old golf joke – “hit the ball, drag Charlie.” And the sound track behind you is the one you associate with the monster coming closer, the limp-gimp of a simpering squeaky wheel sounding the inevitable.

I am ready for change. It comes upon me suddenly, does change. It takes a breath that won’t release & chokes off the chance for future air. It tunnels vision, limits thinking until let go. It demands every scintilla of attention in an arc of trajectory that sucks the body after – grabbing mind & heart first. The rest must somehow catch up, blurring into elasticity, some cartoon of impossible Gumby proportions. It’s unexpected (to say the least). It sometimes never does reunite into a single being & part of me is left behind forever, a note hanging, an echo from a room away. The suspense is excrutiating. The relief of the end goal divine.

I am finished with this job. It served me for a year. I helped it get on its feet, patted its little behind, tickled its curly scalp & now, with it barely standing, I realize I can take no more. It’s a job where they consciously reject change, deleting the better they can do to serve in favor for what has already proven trite. It scales down thinking & smashes any attempts to improve with sure, strong strokes like pummeling bread dough.

I don’t have to fit any mold any more. I can wipe the webs from my face, I’ve made it through the darkling forest & into a clearing where nothing shows beyond the sky. This is the place where wings dance & possibility bubbles into its opposite number.

I will watch them shrink into a distance as they fight hard to maintain small rather than mainline growth. When I move into this grace where the limitless opens a side to the ship’s skin, I will walk through & claim my own wild ride, turning in that ticket of a year in seatbelts for one deep breath.

I will never exhale!

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LETTER TO A PRISONER OF WAR

I want to visit a prisoner of a relationship of war

A victim & perpetrator in a crime of passion

For which he suffers incarceration:

A young man who never integrated his freedom

Who took blame by the elbow & made it a confidant

So now he lives with it (if his sentence truths out)

For ten years more.

Who made his prison?

Does he know he has the tools to escape?

Being a handyman, he knows tools…

Oh, he tried. I saw him trying. I heard his “no”

Echoing in her matrix of sensuous “yes!”

Who took his body on that wild

Nightmare of a ride through rage & pain

Of hurt & ill-wishing

Of all the darkness of a 2 a.m. vendetta?

What occupied his mind as he ran

From the scene

Shirtless, reeling with fever?

Did he try to think himself back to innocence

To that hour before vengeance overtook his mind

Overpowering his soul?

How could he know in that moment of lighting

The match he used for the pleasure of tobacco

To a world of merciless man-made justice?

Who is to say he should not pay, this youth

Made of abusive put downs & unmanned

By his own son’s cautious return into his life?

He, who will know little now of light

Bored beyond numb, attacked on all sides

Caught in unending scream, this

Boy-man snared by untrue love

By masquerade of truth

By the Jezebel of his own choosing?

And what of she … but I cannot admit her yet

Only knowing part of her soul squeals as only a

Trapped woman can.

I have no mercy upon her now, no cooling

Forgiveness for her unending miserliness

In wishing him such as he suffered at her hands.

I give this to Mercy with no words of intercession,

Only the mute knowledge of a mother

Wanting only to spare this son

His punishment.

I give this now, knowing full well the law will

Extract many pounds of flesh

Until it reaches bones & gnaws these to salt.

All for an “I’ll show her!”

He’s foresworn an entire lifetime

He might have spent in living

Had he spent a moment in thought.

I cannot end this here

Yet there are no more words to say.

Carol (for Brandon) 9/20/23

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The Recovering Psychedelic

Just when I thought events could not become more tangled at work – which is my main proving ground at this time of my life – they rewrap the Maypole with a swoop. After all, I did not think I’d be working at this age. Just days shy of the third-quarter-century mark, I thought I’d be reclining with a large-print book in a hammock, sipping chilled lemonade. I seem to be left with a bowl of lemons instead.

So much of the story I was told is so patently untrue! No wonder I reject nonfiction, favoring the flavors of myth. The tenets of truth have snaked back upon themselves. I am looped in lost causes: the world is not what it was meant to be & nothing like I am supposed to be convinced it is. At this time, I should be well-marinated in fear of all kinds. In truth, I’ve adopted a kind of “Well, it is enough to be what it is.” I swing the spotlight of focus to fall upon the study of love instead.

But love’s a hard sell today. Love’s the used car salesman with the toothy smile, the circus barker shouting wonders to be seen just inside this tent right here, Little Lady, the priest slicing a tomahawk hand to separate body & soul, ostensibly in blessing. Love, like truth, has become unrecognizable except in parody & mushy sentiment. Yes, my eyes still prick with tears at photos of kittens. But love is more the tears in reaction when the sun rises over an edge to the East, huge, quivering, brilliant, scintillant. One sunrise is so much more than my entire life will ever be, yeh?

I do not know if these words will capture fame, but they have encompassed my fate. I wonder who understands them. I get few comments & faint praise. Neither of these decides me in any other direction other than to continue on with them. I am building my own structure in my own time with my own hands, my own materials. The wind whistles through; pages flip & tear; bytes devour meaning.

I have come to understand there is no insurance policy for Stupid, no shield for accusations of others telling me I’m less than I am. I understand their need perhaps better than many when I get their rightness bears them up more strongly than mine lifts me. But I have withered from a shining mare on the hillside, satin & thin-skinned, to a burro (or an ass) with a wrinkled muzzle sprouting strong black hairs.

I’ve done my share of walking in circles. I’ve borne the curses of others & found self unresentful, if stung. I am quick to educate but students do not always care for the diploma I confer.

In the long run, my truth means more to me than that of others. Is this not the way it is supposed to be? I have changed from inattention, unconcern, bullish insistence & sheer perversity to a half-paid attention with overtones of belief bobbing about. I know my truth; it’s only yours I doubtfully accept.

A friend likened me recently to a dragon & I have one as my spirit totem, so this is not a totally fabricated tale. Dragons are aloof, she said – I thought it was sheer neglect of humans. I don’t know anyone like me & I hardly “know myself” in the classical sense of the admonition.

For me, it has not been about that although it’s bruited as the Meaning of Life. Mine is the role of observer, not the participant, in most encounters. If these point up where others “went wrong,” this is my marvel, not my blame, my preference, not my alignment. Because in the end of my time, when I roll out of that swaddling cloth & tip the lemons to the ground, I will find myself at a beginning once more.

Let me in, God, I will say. Could You just let me in?

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Alignment

What does it mean to have no dreams? That blog before this one, where I made a wish? This is some years later in the writing…

I took a class recently “Aligning Inner Self.” Now, I am quite snobbish about taking classes. I teach them, right? I tried not to be judgmental. I went with an attitude of learning & so I did. I learned about balance, specifically mine.

Teacher relied heavily on movie analogies. “Picture this like the scene from that.” One of the exercises was to express a desire: a wish in fact. It was to discern a future where we wished our way in. What was for gain was to ping the 100% Happiness Button. He had us picture it in the form of a hologram held in one hand. I did not even cup my palm as the others did. I realized there was nothing in that moment, nothing in my life, I would change in order to have one thing else. I am at a point of perfect balance. How often this might happen is rivaled only by the number of times it is realized. My tiny hologram Princess Leia (his analogy, not mine) did not need to materialize.

When he asked what we had out-pictured, I said “I pass” & inclined my head to the next student. Later – and I knew he would do this – he returned to the topic, smiling at me as he asked was there anything around my not wanting to share? I felt defensive admitting I had no wish. After a breath, I said, “Well, nothing came into my mind as you asked that, so I had to honor that nothing.” He smiled harder, clasped his hands together in a Namasté. He inclined his head to me. I blinked. He was able to allow a student to be his teacher in this moment.

Later, I would worry that non-wish like a seed, trying to get it caught between two teeth so I could chew it up. I thought about how I could have seen a freshly-authored mile of books in front of me – or even just the next one – or being a celebrated author, renowned in several languages. I could have wished to be slim, but I would lose too much of myself.

These did not occur to me then. Then nothing stirred the well I was gazing into.

And since I’m getting pathological about sharing secrets (tho not with you, Dear Reader), I may not have shared whatever wish mounted the sub-basement stairs to peer into a ready-made Reality. I would have pinned it in a steely gaze, told it “Wait! Who are you?” Held up a hand to stop it… while my face said, “no dreams neded here, move along.”

I had occasion to go through a period recently of intense dislike of myself. It had no overt reason I could think … just was. I honored that.

It seems to have spun back onto itself & the space it left has filled with comfort.

This is all I need right now: you reading this blog, me writing it. If I have to meet the world reader by reader, I am ready to write.

Love,  Carol

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