Medicate yourself with meditation. Gaze at the moon with wisdom in its timeworn face….or into an aquarium at fish like fancy signatures that pose their colorful fortunes before the glass. In the quiet receptiveness of your mind, you could find many truths--- things like: World disciplinary intelligence is knowing which side of the hand to use. Feeling sorry for yourself is a waste of time. Clean your wounds. Take the stitches. Live with the scars. Pry out of defeated fetal position. Change your mind if that’s what it takes. Take a different path. Appreciate people, but expect fairness from them. Quit making people inanimate objects so they will be easier to deal with. Life may sometimes feel like an assortment of abominations, a parade of petty or pervasive problems, and vile splashes of political vomit, but know that no place or situation is mystically perfect, perfectly safe. Accept circumstances then? Heck no! Steel yourself with oomph summoned from your core. On a personal or world level, work constructively toward solutions!

 

If a gift is always expected as proof of love, love has not yet been proven.

 

I went through the day with an undefended heart and a mouth like a drawstring purse,  Everything wow- ed me !

 

My First Visit To the Circus:
Pajama animals, acrobats and clowns, a foray of stripes, stars and checks, in a torn and flapping tent of white sheets, all of it snapping and clashing, as my mother, the ringmaster, and quietly in control in the midst of it, snatched pins loose as a storm rolled in

THE WORLD IS MINE, OR IS IT
(I know nothing.....but sometimes I say it pretty well.)



I am not a world traveler, nor a traveler much outside my town. Being catered to in some fine hotel would embarrass me. I'd rather help the custodian scrub the floor. Neither would I ask that someone change guest room sheets for me nor make room for me at their table. I WANT to sleep in my own bed or on the floor, which is sometimes my preference, CHOOSE to use my own toileting facilities and reach into my own refrigerator for my own burrito. Ah-h, life is good!

 

I remember...  Running a garden hose on a slope and sliding repeatedly until the green blanket was peeled back from the soil, and the soil was mud -- beautiful, slippery mud. I remember smudged faces and hands and arms slick with mud, and kneading, molding mud, and laughing until it hurt.  I remember my daughter, maybe six then, and me twenty six, and her eventually saying before it occurred to me, "Can we be done playing now, Mama?"  Oh, yes, I remember....and I know I would take that slide and muck and mess again if my beautiful daughter, grown now, was still willing....


I know I will not be sorry because my house was left a little messy while I played outside with my daughter... Or that I allowed her any wall she wanted to draw her pictures, that I spent time with an amazing man rather than griping about where he left his shoes... that I sat up all night to listen or to mop a brow or pat a hand  when someone in my family was ailing.... or that I curled up and slept all night on the floor beside a dog or cat that lay dying. I will regret none of that, and regret only that the time ran out....

 


As a young person, I wanted to be a singer.  I wanted to stand on stage and bawl it out there like Janis Joplin. I got myself a fine little tape recorder and I sang my heart out into it, then listened to the playback.... Hm-m-m, I thought, there's a lesson here. I grabbed a pen, wrote:  Desire. Ability.  Not an automatic match.

 

Here goes another day without the romance of extremes, another opportunity to  try to catch a rich current of inspiration with a huge sail of curiosity. Just an ordinary day, boring to most others would be my guess, but exactly where I want to be.

Here's to bygone years of high ambition!  Now, it is enough to sit under the sun and feel it. But then, I wanted to rise and be it.