Up late with books, reading in bed—
Up early with coffee, extra lead.
Personal Journal
Poem of the April Palo Verde
Yellow.
Freaking.
Everywhere.
Homeward
Weather is a great metaphor for life — sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s bad, and there’s nothing much we can do about it but carry an umbrella or choose to dance in the rain.
A thousand choices
Transform FEAR into —
curiosity, love, kindness, humor, hope, joy, knowledge, focus, laughter, awareness, wonder, willpower, wings, experience, faith, fervor, challenge, gratitude, encouragement, enlightenment, goodwill, action, learning, beginnings, opportunity, aim, determination, adventure, character, smiles, hard work, independence,
Wheee!
Sliding down the banister of life is so much more fun than ambling down
Defining moments
We all have those moments in our lives that transform us — something small or big happens and we’re never the same.
Sometimes we remember these moments in our personal histories as leaps, or falls — or just serendipitous wanderings — from one life segment to the next.
Or we mark them like stars on a map of self — constellations of life-changing moments. Some seem crazy small and wouldn’t even register as stars in others’ systems. But in our own they blaze bright.
Or maybe our days are raindrops and our lives rolling clouds and these moments are lightning strikes. Raindrop days, lightning-strike moments.
These maps and moments imprint our souls, our minds, our memorious hearts. Our stories of self are made from them.
Him
He asked to meet
He wanted to talk
He tried to kiss me
He tried to grab
We parted ways
He was mad
That I wouldn’t
Give him anything
I was mad about
What he was
Trying to take
Shaken, stirred
Our passion and kisses were stumbling — but stumbling in sync.
Free but homesick
Only those in tune with nature seem to pick up on the energy in wind. All sorts of things get swept off in the breeze — ghosts, pieces of soul, voices unsung, thoughts repressed, love uncherished, and a thousands galore of spiritual ether.
Living
trying not to
spread my ashes
before i’m dead
Real eyes
Now that I’m over the hill
I can see it’s just made of
skeletons of dead monsters
that were never really there.
But that past is no less high
and no less there, and I am
no less on the other side of it.
After decades
She was fifty and needed
extra time to heal —
especially emotionally.
At fifty, the feelers
have already been dulling
for years, and if they haven’t
been fully numbed by now,
this is the year they will go.
Holding it together
Gratitude is the glue that makes just about everything else stick.