funny enough, I think creating a blog made me stop writing.

I have a new sense of my boundaries now.  Turns out I don't really want you all to know.  Turns out I'd rather fill up journals with songs and poems and give my friends clear instructions to burn them when I'm gone.  Finally, something I can be consciously selfish about without feeling any pangs of guilt.

I'm going to slowly take all of this off of the internet.  I'll still share with you, maybe, if you ask me to.

sabbath rain

I woke up to rain, and my first thought was "I'll take it."

It's okay that my sheets are on the line.  It's okay that they've been there for three days.  It's okay that they are now wet again.

And it's okay that I can't keep up.  It's okay if I never catch up.

The sun porch is messy.  The rain is perfect.  So is my morning cup of tea.  The shimmering song is ancient, gentle and unrelenting.  The moment is fresh and poised.  Today I will let the rain be a comfort.  I'll let it wash my silly reasons into the meaninglessness and all-meaning silence.

someone somewhere

She made a pretty penny in real estate.
but never did fall in love.
She had a certain taste for fixer-uppers,
for sledge hammers and roller brushes
perfecting and moving on.

Pocket Guide to Grace: Lesson 76

When you find that the world is spinning, hold onto something stable and stop turning yourself around.

drunken daffodils

The daffodils clearly had also had too much to drink during the night.  They stood slouched and hung over the puddles and the sopping grass.  I felt comfort in their kinship, their rebellious vibrancy .  Though oppressively loaded with the evenings's storm, these daffodils were shining in chorus, singing gleaming hymns despite the fog, despite the burdensome grey of the morning.

I had no idea why I was awake.  The sun must of come up, I figured, though I couldn't see it.  I couldn't recall sleeping, but I also couldn't recall not sleeping.  As I pieced together the evening, I became pretty sure that I had still been awake and pushing words through my whiskey seasoned vocal chords long after the bars put us to the streets.  I was with the boy again, probably saying words I'd regret if i ever remembered them, probably talking myself right into bits of sleep caught on his shoulder.  But now I was awake, disoriented, (perhaps broken-hearted), and hanging out with slouched and singing daffodils.  We were all still intoxicated.

I had been sitting on my back steps for at least an hour, but I wouldn't go in until I had found whatever there was to be found in the morning.  The knuckles on my index fingers were smudged with my eye makeup, and all of my fingernails were black-tipped and gritty.  I  cleaned the salt-spots off of my glasses with my dress, and gave up trying to remember the evening.

The weight of the air comforted my weighted heart.  The fog in the back yard forgave the fog in my mind.  The daffodils seemed to say "Hey, we've all had it rough.  Be still, and shine."

This was the first day of spring.  Soon after, my life and the magnolia tree above the daffodils exploded into bloom.

exclamation

the short hand for my reflections on life these days is:

!!!

The end.

Digital Rain Drops

I just went for a run in the rain to put my laundry into a dryer.

I ran, did the laundry business, ran back.  

I've got no hat on, and open top shoes, and my forehead and socks are sopping it up.  And my glasses are all speckled with water which just make every light become a gigantic star in my face.   And it's kind of cold and that feels so good!  I've got this added bonus, a gifted pashmina scarf keeping my neck all soft and warm while the rest of me is tickled with big ol' sloppy April drops.  And theres totally an IPA in my belly and rain on my face and the speed of my jog reminds me that it's spring and that I can run and that I can move and life is so freaking good!

How glorious it is to run in the rain!

And then there's this thought that comes to my mind:

"'Running in the Rain, Running to Stand Still!' I should post that as my Facebook status when I get back."

At this point I can actually see my house.

What!?!?!   I'm running in the fucking rain, and it's AWESOME and I'm all chilled out on hops and spring and love of life, and i've got STARS like crazy in in front of my fucking EYES, and now I'm thinking about Facebook and status updates with U2 references!  "Oh, there's my house where I can (and have to) tell the world, on Facebook (because that's the world, right?), how I am So living up life.  

Living it up so much that though I resisted updating my status on Facebook, I did pause to write this blog.

Viva, friends, fucking viva. 

Impulsive Brain Consumption

I do hope that my friends here were all organ donors.

Just in case you needed a dose of Dianimal behavior.  Roar.

Loving Editor

Someone I trust says, "Don't touch it.  It'll hurt."  So I don't touch it (in this hypothetical scenario, at least).

That's because I've been hurt, and so I can recall the experience of being in pain.  I'm not looking for pain, so I'm not going to touch it.

If I had never ever been hurt, and therefor had no memory reference for the experience of pain, well, I'd probably touch it.  Why not?

Learning is non-linear.  I hope to remember that.  It allows so much grace.  

I haven't written in a while.  I've been seeking humility (and I do get so distracted!).  It's a non-linear lesson.  Is there any room for humility in the blog world?  

We shall see.

I went to Walden Pond Monday.  I was walking around the pond with a new friend, enjoying the peace.  Then just as I was about to open up my mouth, a gentle, silent, laugh stopped me.  "Not everything is to be shared."  I spend so much time trying to find peace from the words-words-words, and I was about to dump the chatter that I seek to free myself from into the ears of a man who seemed very peaceful.  Instead I found the gentle, silent laugh that devoured the need to speak, ate the words out of my throat.  The loving editor intervened.  Peace retained...silence...clear water...sparkling....now.

The funny thing about this blogging business is that since I've started writing and posting, I've become very conscious of how much bullshit comes out of my head and out of my mouth or onto the page.  So much chatter, and none of it real.  I've written about 50 unpublished blogs, and I've purposely shut myself up here and there for the first time in, oh, maybe, ever.  I am praying, walking, riding my bike past the buds turning to flowers right before my eyes, and asking the loving editor to remain, to help a sister out.  I may be her most difficult case, but i do believe she loves me and is going to stick around.

It's a silent, gentle laughter.  A jolly nature.  A soul's whisper.  A simple acknowledgement, "yes."

Pocket Guide to Grace: Lesson 28.3

Step one:  Create a to-do list.

Step two:  Add a few things at the end that you've already done.

Step three: Cross those things you've already done off.  Good Job!

Step four: Proceed with life (as in go ahead and get distracted)

Step five:  Lose your to-do list.  Just fucking lose it.

Step six:  Forgive yourself for losing your to-do list.  Really.  Fuck it.  

Step seven: Proceed with your day.  

Step eight: Catch yourself getting pissed at yourself for the things you didn't do.

Step nine: Forgive yourself again.  This may help:  "What are you going to get an award in Heaven for doing everything perfectly?  No!  So then, fuck it!"  (thanks, Tesia, for that one.)

Step ten: Proceed to bed time.  Go to bed. (I know that's two steps, but, again, fuck it. We're done honoring rules of to-do lists here)

Step eleven: Oops, you're thinking of those things again.  

Step twelve:  Let it go.  No one is perfect.  Isn't that great?  You're supposed to be, well, flawed.  Good Job!

Step thirteen: Let it go again.

Step fourteen: Again

Step fifteen: Repeat steps twelve through thirteen until drifting into a very peaceful rest.

Good Night.  Peace out.

The animals feed themselves.

I quit the farm.

After Thanksgiving Dinner, my aunts and cousins told me I had to start playing Farmville, a virtual-farming game that is available through Facebook.

"We can give each other gifts," Jessie said.  "I gave Ang and Tom reindeer this morning."  She was snickering.  They know it's silly, but they're all doing it anyway.

"I really can't, guys.  I don't have cable or a gaming system for a reason, I get hooked on that shit and then I don't do what I'm supposed to do in real life.  I have way too much on my plate right now to take up another addiction."

"You can spend as much or as little time as you want" Auntie Lori says, "You have to get a farm!"

"I can spend as much or as little time as I want on Facebook, but somehow I always spend way more time than I want.  Really, I don't need one more reason to be online, I got to like pay bills and eat meals and stuff."

By the end of the night I agreed to get a farm.  Fuck it.  It's just a silly Facebook game.

By Christmas I had a very sweet farm.  I had more crops and animals and "points" than most of my family. Jessica sent me an e-mail just a few days before Christmas.  "Can't wait to see you.  Nice farm.  What's your secret?  I'd like to know"

I e-mailed back:   "Insomnia's my secret."

Which was half the truth.  I had spent many a late night farming when I was too sleep deprived to do much else.  You just point and click.  Point and click.  Point and click.  Then you buy barns and houses and pretty little decorations.  My excuse for farming during daytime hours was that "I needed something mindless," and it sure was.  I even had some free child-labor via the exploitation of my niece, who loved the game.

There was another, much dirtier truth.  I was competing with my most recent ex-boyfriend.

I spent HOURS working on a virtual farm almost entirely to make mine cooler and better than his.  He was competing with me, too.  I knew it.   I could see it in his crop circles.

"The truth shall set you free."  Well... What is the truth really?  That it was a waste of time?  That it was childish and petty?  That that game is totally stupid?

I like this truth: Once upon a time I had a virtual-farm habit.  It was short lived, in the scheme of things, and it's over now.  


I left a sign on my "farm" that says "I've skipped town.  Don't worry, the animals feed themselves."  This was over a week ago.

That same evening, Tesia and I stopped at her plot in the Northampton community gardens.  It was one of the first nights of the year that we could be outside without shivering, and neither of us had been to her garden all winter.  We pulled the car right up to the edge, and used the headlights as lanterns as we went to inspect what the winter had done.

We wandered around the dark plot.  She was looking for garlic and I was just dancing.  Really.  Skipping and jumping and then, just like a little kid, hollered "It's here!  It's here!  It's really Spring."  As Tesia moves into the light from the car I say "I want to farm.  Real farming.  Real gardening.  Real life."

I looked down at the clumpy dirt, waiting to be tilled and fertilized and loved, and could imagine a very very sweet garden.

(photo by Micheal R. Mosall  www.mosallphotography.com)

Viva St. Patrick's Day

Yes.  I'm wearing green.  So is my Mostly-Polish-American house mate.

I was hoping to get to work and find the three year old that I nanny for dressed in his snake shirt, just to be ironic.

No one knows a thing about St. Patrick, except that he wasn't Irish.  The story is that he was English, during the Roman Empire, which made him a Roman.  The Roman's had ignored that silly little island with those odd Celts for quite some time, but finally, they decided to convert the people.  Thus enters St. Patrick.  Or so the story goes.

Revered amongst a drinking nation and highly honored in the cities across America where the drunken ancestors of the mostly-oppressed mostly-drunken-Irish immigrants settled and multiplied (and multiplied and multiplied), the reportedly-English St. Patrick has somehow become the hero of Irish culture even to the people who's families have not set foot in a Catholic Church in generations.  He's so loved that Americans of all heritages pretend to be Irish for his special day.  They're all, of course, jealous of the beer and whiskey.

The Irish are an excepting people, they'll let anyone drink with them, then move in. (well, this is true for the Catholics, I don't know about those Protestants)  The Irish-American Catholics have held onto this welcoming drunken spirit.  I do adore it so.

Really, I am Irish.  Don't even try to tell me otherwise.  I know, I know, you say "You're American, idiot".  And well, it's true, I'm American, but my family is SO Irish.  We're not even really conscious about it. ("We're Irish right?" my older cousin asks.  "Yes, more than anything else," I reply) We're all about family pride.  And drinking.  And pushiness and persistence.  And adopting any person with a Christmas dinner under 10 to join our crew, and bring their family (and hell, why not their friends, too?) I mean, what's Christmas without serving yourself from an buffet of dishes strewn over every surface and then searching for a seat?

We were talking about a different Holiday, though, won't we? (or wasn't I?, rather)

My only 100% Irish friend told me that he had heard somewhere that St. Patrick may have been Scottish, and though it wasn't Irish, it eased his mind just a little to think perhaps he at least wasn't English.  He then told me that his mother was having six people stay at her home this coming weekend so that they could attend the parade.

I went to an Irish Catholic school where we didn't even have classes on March 17th.  We just partied (sans Guinness or Jameson, of course) I don't know if they celebrate St. Patrick's day in public schools these days.  They certainly celebrate St. Valentine's day, but given that his name is now archaic and novel, it is easy to drop the "Saint" from the day.  And hearts! Chocolate! Of course the schools are fine with this.  How do we get kids exited about regular old clovers that don't even have four leaves? Or little scary men in odd suits that lie and tell you there's pots of gold at the end of the rainbow?  What's up with those pots?  No kid has ever seen a pot like that.  And how do we get them excited about stout?  Or Irish whiskey?

Well, they'll learn the wonders of pretending to be Irish-Catholic for a day in their own time, I suppose.

I'm not Atheist, I just find this pretty funny:

No worries.  I'm not bah humbugging this wonderful holiday.  I'll be drinking Guinness and eating Dubliner cheddar, this evening.   I was raised Irish-Catholic.  I have my pride.

The Revolution

“No revolution in outer things is possible without prior revolution in one's inner way of being. Whatever change you aspire to … must be preceded by a change in heart.” (yet another I Ching translation)


"I'm starting a revolution" I say, while pacing the dining room.


Tesia is sitting at her desk, illustrating."Oh great! I've been waiting for this." She turns and smiles at me. "Will it be televised?"



As the oppressive New England February was coming to it's end, I was ready to put an end to the internal oppressor.  I made up my mind to find my way back to to being me.  The fear that had crept in and taken stronghold had to go.  I would usurp.  I just had to figure out how.    


Little acts of civil disobedience had already taken place.  I started this blog.  I drove past the liquor store countless times without buying a jug of whiskey, and opted to return to the casual one or two beers here-and-there.  I was meditating, taking yoga classes, going for long walks, and even though a cold stole my voice for most of the month, I was still working on songs and playing guitar.  My virtual farm, an endless source of time-waisting, was left unharvested and withered.


Then one night, February 27th, to be precise, these and other little sparks lit a small fire.  I felt warm, and damnit I was going to stay warm.


"No. I don't think it'll be televised, but I'm sure it'll be all over facebook."  I smirk at Tesia.  I am still wandering the dining room looking for something.  "I've learned to be a little more guarded while feeling vulnerable. I'm feeling vulnerable, and I will not let the TV crews in."


I continue to look about, but my pace is slower than usual. More focused. My eyes do not dart, but steadily move from one surface to another.


"I've lost my phone again. But right now, instead of hating myself for losing my phone for a second time this evening, I am instead going to begin with this revolution. I am not going to go through the typical patterns of being mean to myself while pacing around ineffectively 'looking' for my phone.  I'm just going to be calm. I'm just going to breath and say 'yes, i've lost my phone again, and it's okay. it's here somewhere.'  Because, in actuality, losing my phone does not make me a fucking idiot, and thinking what a fucking idiot I am certainly wont help me find my phone.  Being right here, right now, will."


Within just a few seconds my phone is in my hand. 


"I like this." Tesia says.  She's helped me look for more than a few missing objects.  She's also been right here with me, a sister, through a very different and challenging time of my life.


"I like it too"


---


The next morning I wake up with the same cold I've had for weeks.  The back of my nose is painfully clogged, my throat hurts, my head is pounding with sinus pressure and my body is rejecting the idea of waking, and also rejecting the idea of falling back to sleep.


Whatever dreams I had that night are chased out of my head by a stampede of soldiers, or thoughts, rather, designed to keep me "safe".  "Why didn't I take more vitamins?" "I should have bought a humidifier." "I killed my own immune system, if I could just learn to freaking SLEEP." "Am I going to be able to work tomorrow?" "I'm so sad that I missed my Grandma and cousins' birthday party." "I miss so many things because I'm sick." "I'm so unreliable" and on and on.  An army of thoughts, marching in, relentless.


I take a deep breath.  In.  Out.  I remember that there is a revolution beginning.

It's Sunday morning.  I can hear Tesia making tea.  I keep breathing.  I am here.


One of my dearest friends, Nathan, leads a Buddhist Sangha from time to time.  I remember him referencing a mystical man, Mooji, during one of these Sangha's.   He teaches that your thoughts are like migrant workers.  They are not self-employed.  You can choose to pick them up and give them work, or just notice that they are there and pass on by.


Breathe In.  Breathe Out.  And...here I am.  


If you buy a piece of land, and decide to build a house, the context of the land, in your mind, transforms from just land to "where the house will be."  The trees, grass, shubs, dirt, rocks, and little life forms turn into "plot." They are "not-yet-the-house-and-yard."


One morning, not too long ago, I woke up and said, "What a mess I've made," and BAM, just like that, simple objects and happenings transformed to mess. I said "I'm going to simplify" and then everything occurred as incredible tangled and complicated.  This is an old pattern.  It's just now the slightly updated version, fit for 2010.


If you dig down deep inna that soul of yours and find sutten you'd forgotten to cook up and now it's all rotten, take that shit out and compost it.


Breathe In.  Breathe Out.


I love how songs will just come to mind like little gifts, sometimes they're my own, sometimes they're someone else's.  A lyric line comes to mind, and it's just perfect.


"You know they never really owned you. You just carried them around with you. Then one day you put them down and found your hands were free."  


I stretch.  I sigh.  I drink the water at my bedside table.  I slowly get up and walk calmly to the dining room, where Tesia is already up and dressed and creating at her desk.


"Spring has sprung early.  There are new beginnings all over the place, Tesia."
She smiles. "Is it part of the revolution?"


Tesia has been having her own revolution.  She is my house mate, my sister, my partner in crime.  We are the resistance, which comes in no resistance.  We are sharpening our "Love Warrior" swords.  We are out to make a difference in this world, and we know that begins right in our very own selves.  Let the cynics scowl. Let the fearful talk and whisper.  Let the soldiers stand there, their weapons useless against our indifference.


Freedom does not actually exist in the act of putting everything down and walking away.  It exists simply in knowing that one truly could. When all the weights and ties are seen for exactly what they are- imaginary- the incredible space that is created leaves so much room for love.  There's no need to run or revolt. This is me. That's the world.  


This is the revolution. It's happening now, while nothing is happening.


"Oh, this is absolutely the revolution, T.  We should have banner."  
"Yes.  We should totally make a banner," Tesia laughs.

*Yes, I quoted Ani, and yes, we know the banner is not grammatically correct in any language

reasons

"Everything happens for a reason."

You've heard this before.

I usually respond to this comment with,

"No, everything does not happen for a reason. People just say that to try to justify the shitty things that happen in their shitty lives."

Then this happened.

(Forgive the blury image, that's my right middle finger that's as blue as my jeans)

This happened for a reason. I was not paying attention to what I was doing, and I slammed my finger into the sliding closet door. The reason for my blue finger nail is my lack of mindfulness at that precise moment.

Yes. It hurt. I was nauseous and a little bit faint. Finger nails are weird like that. Your whole body responds to the pain. You probably already know about finger nails and torture...

I've had another response, recently, to "Everything happens for a reason." This response is for those people who want the reason to be in the future as opposed to the past. It is,

"You make up the reason."

So I have this blue fingernail, and it hurts. Today I was actually making a point to be mindful. Yesterday I was remarkably stressed out by many of lives circumstances, and found myself a blubbering fool. I woke up this morning and thought "Today I will be calm. Today I will do whatever I need to do to have peace." I began the day by meditating. I haven't meditated upon waking in many many years.

During one of the very few moments that I was not "mindful" today, I slammed my finger in a sliding door. Not all of the causes to their effects are so easily and immediately identified.

So I have this blue finger nail, on my right hand. It will probably be there a while. I can make up a really good reason for it. It's a reminder, right there on my prominent hand, to be mindful.

To pay attention.

To be vigilant.

I've been running from me for quite some time... It's a habit. To break a habit requires vigilance and attention.

And here's a nice little reminder, all bright and blue on my right hand.

The only place I want to run is "home", to exactly where I belong.

Really, I don't even need to run there. I'm here. Right now. Hello.

Up with Evil Energy

Yesterday, Monday February 8, 2010, I noticed a very pronounced crease in between my eyebrows. A wrinkle. I leaned into my reflection and squinted, my left eye brow raised slightly above my right. Yes. That's the face that did it. I could see the crease clearly deepening at it's odd little angle. That's my "What the...? ugh..." face. I knew precisely what caused that wrinkle

The Super Bowl commercials.

I had made this very face at very regular intervals for about four hours the night before.

Some people are so used to the television that they can ignore the sheer repulsive stupidity of the commercials. I am not one of these people. I average less than 5 minutes of exposure to TV commercials a month. I am weak to broadcast advertising.

As I stared at my new crease, I realized that I had watched more commercials on Super Bowl Sunday than I had the entire year leading up to that night. And the concentration of the repulsive stupidity gave me that new wrinkle.

So many thoughts race through my head while watching cable TV, they usually all get lumped into "What the?... ugh!" In all the confusion of questions that rush to my brain while I watch a commercial such as the one where people form a human bridge to make it possible for a Budweiser truck to enter their town, I do notice these: "This actually works?" and "What the hell is WRONG with this country!?" The answer to the first question is "Yes, that's why they paid so much to make it," an answer that furthers the brow furrowing. The answer to the second question is so complicated that it requires years and years of dedicated study and thought to still only pretend you have.

What's up with me and this wrinkle in my eye? Did anyone else develop a new and pronounced wrinkle at the Super Bowl Party?

Nope, no one seemed to share my look of concern and confusion. Everyone else (except maybe Jacquie up front) was just watching the Super Bowl. To my friends, the commercials were just Super Bowl commercials.

If Ned were here, he would remind me that I am not exactly weak to broadcast marketing, but to the Evil Energy.

In the year that Ned and I were house mates, I learned a lot about this "Evil Energy". He would comment from time to time that I would not be so weak to television commercials if I just watched them a little more often. Not overboard, so much so that I am totally numbed, just enough to get used to them a bit, to make them less of an assault on my system.

Like a vaccination, I suppose. Just the right amount.

This idea also applied to junk food, mall exposure, pop music, cheap beer, video games and all other sorts of controversial cultural matter that had become "no-no's" in my crunchy Pioneer Valley lifestyle.

Just watching Ned in a convenience store was a lesson in itself (besides the lesson that you shouldn't join him in the trip if you didn't have 30-60 minutes to spare). I was always simultaneously annoyed and amused as Ned wandered around such small limited spaces as the Hadley Shell Station, soaking in entirety of a store that seemed to me to have nothing useful but lighters and ice. It was a though he absolutely needed to fully inspect the packaging, label design, ingredients, and possible tastiness or repulsiveness of every single item, and also take in the layout and general feel of the store as a whole. He did this, I believe, every time he went into a convenience store, whether alone or accompanied by a group of our house mates, spending nearly an hour just to end up at the counter with some Hot Fries, Coca-Cola, and a pack of cigarettes.

We both worked at Whole Foods at the time, too. For the most part, the man ate pretty well. He definitely ate healthier than any other 25-year-old man I knew at the time. He just had to have a Nerd's Rope candy and a Coke from time to time.

"You have to build up on the Evil Energy, or you'll be weak to it" he casually commented in the kitchen, as I as pointed the brow furrowed, wrinkle producing face at his meal of store brand "cup o'noodles" and soda. "You can't avoid eating junk food altogether, or if you're ever in a situation where you have to eat junk food, you'll be sick and useless. I like to build up a little bit of the Evil Energy from time to time, just to make sure I can handle it."

Ned's alarm clock at the time was a radio blasting "You've got to know your chicken!" He never actually woke up, which amused me greatly, as it was loud enough for me to hear from anywhere in the three floor farmhouse. I often knocked several times on his door, getting my daily dose of the bad music Evil Energy.

I remember, also, that I made this same face the first time I came home to all seven of my house mates, (Ned still included) and several of their friends crammed into the living room watching lost. I caught a few minutes of terrible acting, and "What the...? ugh...!" happened to my brain and I promptly left the living room. Those several minutes are still my only several minutes of Lost. While I'm typing this 9.8 million people are watching Lost. Several million more will download and watch it in the next few days. I, however, will wrinkle if I catch a short glimpse of it.

I moved from that house over two years ago. I used to do these three week intense dietary cleanses, I haven't done one since leaving there. But I also haven't played enough video games, drank enough Coca-Cola, heard enough odd pop songs, or watched television commercials to have my proper dose of Evil Energy.

Until yesterday, when I noticed my new wrinkle, I hadn't really thought about Evil Energy much at all.

Maybe I'll take Ned, Steve, and Erik (all former house mates of mine who still live together) up on their offer to stop by and play some video games very soon.

Maybe, with the formation of this wrinkle, I'll finally give in and watch Lost.

I've clearly got to build up an immunity somehow. I'm all set with the premature wrinkles. I'm also all set with being an innocent bystander, clean of cultural "no-no's", furrowing my brows and saying "Don't look at me, I don't even get it at alll."

Sometimes we can give in just a little for the sake of not really giving in.

Mind Dust

It's amazing.

All I want to do is write. Specifically, write for the sake of sharing. More specifically, I just always want to get back to this blog. For a week or so, I've been spending all of my spare time writing, collecting "rough drafts" (as if i'll ever edit anything, as if I even know how to edit) of thoughts and opinions of things that I imagine I will one day post to the world... my three dedicated readers.

I start one little blog, with three actual posts, and three subscribing readers, and now I want to write about EVERYTHING! The first few days, I was inundated by memories and emotions and outlooks on life, all claiming an urgent need to be written about and shared. Start to sweep the attic and the dust bunnies flutter into your eyes and fly into your nose.

Today I noticed that I actually want to write about EVERYTHING as in literally, EVERYTHING.

Look, I even want to write about how I want to write about everything.

In order to write about everything, though, I would have to stop and observe the world. Listen to everything. Read about everything. Reflect on other's views of everything... In order to have the time to pay attention to everything, I have to stop using all of my free time writing about the random objects in the attic of my brain.

Not to mention that when I started this Spring cleaning of my head, I realized that I am allergic to mind dust.