June in Deerfield

The chill remains.  The sliding water hides the roots, hosts the gnats, and slithers past.  Bringing newness.  New should be good.  But really nothing is moving.   the hands of the clock count imaginary hours.  the beats of the heart number our passage.  Light fades and glows.  We turn around and the shadows are longer.  Or are they shorter?  Or are they shadows?  I choose the light.  The heat.  the beating fleeting moment.  seize the day.  each and every one.

Sob sisters and merry sunshines

We still live in the best and worst of times.  It's all happening but we choose a perspective.  So much so that a particular perspective becomes a prat of our identity, or becomes an excuse for failing at making a true attempt to come to grip with the struggles and the joys that we encounter.  If you conflate struggle with a joy, "I'm learning so much from this" are you facing away or towards the true.  Are you in or out of the cave?

Coming clean

A season of discoveries.  Haunted by the past, and held together by hope and kindness. A day at the laundromat was a hard test.  The sadness of dirt and despair, and disfunctioning....not wise. Not good. And not at all a good idea.