Tree wisdom

                                                It’s equinox.

                                                Twelve hours of light.

                                                Twelve hours of darkness.

                                                Everything should be in perfect balance?

                                                Shouldn’t it?

                            Yet, there is energy about that roams, hungry.

                                                Searching…

                   This where smart birds migrate.

                  And I see why, for many reasons. Last night was cold.

Oh, so cold.

It's cold, tonight, as well. But I got smarter, and placed a blanket over my tent.

But the stars were so beautiful.

As they are tonight. Crystal clear. 

I moved my tent closer to the house, under the crab apple tree to protect myself from the wind, and the rain.

      And it was not without some sadness, as I had made my previous spot, my sacred space. 

                    But now, here too, is also sacred. 

                The tree seemed to like me under it, like an old friend that had always been there, watching, silent, kind, steady.

          It whispered soft lullaby’s, and the ground seemed to say hello.

         Sometimes I hear a plop, as a crap apple falls and hits my tent, or the ground. This tree has been here as long or longer than myself.

      And for all these years, it has never stopped being a crab apple tree. Each year I know that if it doesn’t frost, blossoms will arrive in springtime, they will appear, as if by magic. Armfuls of soft, pink flowers, bringing with them butterflies, hummingbirds, and the abundant hum of bees.

                And now, it’s full of orange crab  apples, and glowing leaves.

                Sleeping under it, it has provided shelter. And under me, I know its roots run deep.

                Watching its beautiful leaves through the mesh screen of my tent makes me feel like I’m in some cathedral, looking at stained glass painting. But more vivid, and living.

                Here songs of saints are uttered, whispered on wing, and wind.

                Who can here this chant?

                Transpose the language of the trees into text so that we may all be in communion together?

                I wonder if I slept under each and every tree in my yard, if perhaps, they would impart their tree wisdom to me, and their unique perspective. As we ponder, and appreciate each other.

                Maybe that should be my life mission, to find the most ancient trees, and sit beneath them.

                And they would tell me the poetry of their beingness and we both understand one another, better.

                The wisdom of a tree. It’s wordless, beauty, though it sings gently when the wind kisses it.

                Oh to be a tree, must in away, be a paradise.

                And a sadness.

                For a tree is valuable, because it stays right where it is planted.

                It never leaves its post.

                And you can’t tell if it ever sleeps.

                Do trees sleep?

                Do they wake?

                In winter, do trees feel the cold?

                Do they feel sorrow when the frost touches their leaves?

                Or do they smile, as they blush orange, and red, and yellow, and take on the gown of winter, and of gray, and of cold, with a solemn, regal, sovereign knowingness.

                They are a tree, and nothing can beak their form.

                Unless an ax is wielded.

                Or their wood harvested.

                Yet, still they are a tree.

                They are made of wood, and water, and wind, and soil, and stardust.

                To be a tree, and then if by chance, used for heat, then they are fire, and then dust, and a phoenix of the air.

                To be reborn as earth.

                And so the earth and trees.

                The trees, and the earth.

                To be as solid, and yielding, and beautiful as a tree.

                To know that coded inside me is this tree-soul, my own knowing.

                That no matter what passes, or words that are said, or what good, or bad my eyes have seen.

                I am still.

                And in this space, where I am steady though the seasons come, and the rain, and the wind, and the weather dances.

                I am fixed to the soil, and my branches reach to the sky.

                People may take shade, and or pass by. Birds will tell me their secrets.

                And hopefully my roots go deep, into the kingdom invisible, anchored in my knowing, where I am still---and hear the secrets whispered in the earth of everything that has passed, and gone, and of man’s toil, and reaching.

                Would we were more like these sentinels.

                Would, we were more like the living wood.

                The sequoia trees of soul, old, and wise---giving oxygen, and life, and a house for birds.

                Never has a tree offered me advice, nor told me any wrong.

                Yet nothing is more profound, then the message it teaches, in its knowing.

                Even as I sit in my tent, and write this, under my own tree, I am a little too close to the house, and often I can hear loud voices, and I want to find another spot, away from windows, and noise.

                Yet, has this tree ever packed up its roots, moved? Has it ever said it was tired of the people it sheltered, or resisted its place.

                No.

                It grew where God planted it, and beautifully.

                Growing, and perfect.

                If such forest were to follow my angst, we’d have some places full of vegetations, and other places that had nothing growing.

                And if some trees complained, or withdrew their branches from those who we didn’t think deserved shade, the whole world would be in flux. Tress would be darting here and there.

                We wouldn’t have houses made from wood.

                Because they’d never let us catch them.

                Perhaps, plants are the most intelligent being on this planet. Because they live in a state of perfect, growing, giving, stillness.

                Speaking through color, and vibrations, and eating water, and light, and soil, as their food.

                Oh, tree.

                Maybe if I sleep underneath you long enough, I may know your wisdom.

                And my own heart will always be fixed, and offer shelter and wisdom, just by keeping in tune with that invisible soil of Gods.

                Rooted to heaven and earth simultaneously.

                Teach me, dear tree.

                How you be.

               

               

               

               

               

                

buzzing thoughts

 

I’m sitting here. The empty, white screen says it wants words.

My mind is full of thoughts, buzzing around like wings on insects, swirling.

There are so many.

   I know that there only a few worth paying attention to. It's best to swat away the biting bugs, and turd flies, and such.

I will wear lavender, to deter the pesty bugs to buzz elsewhere.

I will go to higher ground, to the meadows of the mind where there are little hills, and green grasses, with wildflowers.

  Here, if you are still, you can see them---the butterflies floating around, playfully dancing wherever it pleases them, the dragonflies who stop and start, and pause, and whirr, settling on a dipping leaf.

  The ladybugs prick the green with a droplet of pure red.

And if you wait long enough, you can see the flicker of fireflies that dance in the darkness.

I will fill my jar with lightening bugs.

                         I will hold my lantern, made out of glowing bug butts.

                                   These gems.

                 Things at the tail end, light your path.

   So when you feel like you need a little light.

    Wait until the sun goes down, and you can see them dancing. 

 And if you’re lucky you can catch a lightening bug.

   Put it in a jar, and you can see the wisdom in a bug that uses his ass to light his way.

         Perhaps.

It means that he knows the magic of alchemy.

And has turned everything it consumes into light. 

   Here are my thoughts tonight…

                                                Swirling.

 Here, a butterfly lands, and I’ll be still, so it can settle on my finger, and linger long enough to tell me its secrets too, of its own alchemy from worm to wing.

And ask the ladybug where it got its cherry red color from? What ink in nature gave it such a crimson hue?

  And maybe, I can record the answers, and use them to understand myself.

  How to obtain the ink that glows in the dark. 

To know the wisdom of the dragonflies who use dewy windowpanes as wings, and zen as their guide.  And to finally know what magic ingredient is inside the cocoon where butterflies turn milkweeds into magic.

                                               

                                               

Alchemy

 Finished writing this yesterday...posted today morning...

    I like to paint in-between writing.

            It's good, because that way I don't mess up my painting, by being impatient. Which is easy to do when you're waiting for paints to dry.

            So words, and paint.

            Paint, and words.

            I'll write some. Let the words dry.

            Paint some.

            Let the paint dry.

            Think some, let the thoughts dry.

            Breath in and out, and let the breath dry.

            Somehow painting and writing in tandem, makes it less scary to do either...

            Let your emotions dry...

            And if you're too dry.

            Dip your brush into the water.

            And make a watercolor...

            And if it's too wet.

            Dry it out.

          And wait.

        Then start painting, start writing again.

Last Saturday, settling into my tent, I saw starlink again. 

This is the third time I’ve seen it.  

I saw it about month ago, in the evening, when I was wheeling my mother around in a wheelchair, for an evening walk, watching lightening. Starlink appeared out of the misty clouds, and floated by, as if taking note of our location. 

On Saturday, it was especially bright. It appeared again and said, “hello,” as it drifted by my tent, a string of white pearls, and then faded out.  

There was supposed to be some sort of comet, in the northeast, but I didn’t see anything, but the stars were fabulous.  

I could not really sleep.   

It was a cool night, but I was hot all day, and hot all night. My ears were ringing---a high-pitched hum, that nearly sounds like some frequency of music I can’t quite understand.

If I could decipher the sounds, maybe I’d know the secrets of the universe.  

Even though the nights and mornings are quite chilly, it so fun to wake up the sounds of happy birds, singing, and popping, and gurgling, and beeping. There have been these cute yellow birds that flit around on all the trees and old fences looking for treasures. Doves keep flying over my tent, hooting. So many of them. I think they know my trees are good place to take shelter in, as it is the dove hunt.  

Starlings chattering.  

There’s a bird that changes notes, to-te-ta.  

One that sounds like a little missile, as it falls. Peeewwuum. It's very funny, and always amuses me. Reminds me of a sound on a video game.

The roosters too. 

All singing.

The other day, my sister pointed out that the different sounds of wings going by were fun to listen to. 

There’s the little whisper of the small birds as they fly by. 

The heavy wings of the doves. 

The wings of birds flying by in clusters.  

The ghostly sounding wings.  

The whistling wings. 

And not to forget the train trumpet going off, too. It’s so humongously loud, I do wonder what kind of mechanism inside of them that can make their horns so loud? That they can be heard at great distances.  

One little trumpet couldn’t be heard that far off. 

But this train trumpet sounds like twenty thousand, I would imagine. Not that I've heard that many, but, when the train blows its whistle, it doesn't sound like no whistling bird.

They feel like they are getting louder. But maybe it’s just because I’m outside a lot, and when you're trying to sleep, they sound so obnoxious.  The trains are so heavy, I can feel the earth rumble underneath me as they pass.

Today I jumped into the canal to cool myself off. It's been so hot in the day, but cool in the night, so the water was freezing.  But today, the sun was shining so nicely, it felt quite good.

I thought I'd keep my wet clothes on, and then work on my hot greenhouse, as it is was in a very sorry state.

The roof is especially needing attention. We had a hailstorm that was crazy. It hit in the middle of the day, a while back, and my sister and I took shelter in our outbuilding. The thunder, and hail were so fierce water started gushing into the building, and hail popped through the slats of the wood. It was exciting being in there with the thunder rumbling. I think next time there's a storm, I want to be in there, so as to appreciate the weather.

When the storm was over, there were big, nearly, marble sized hails everywhere, and massive rain puddles. I stood on our sidewalk, listening to this surreal growl of thunder that continued to echo like an angry lion in one continuous sound.  

This hail was not so good on my garden. My sunflower's leaves were shredded, but the sunflowers did protect the plants below them. Sunflowers were quite a symbiotic thing to plant, as they sheltered the lower growing vegetation from being incinerated by the sun.

Though the hail and wind toppled many of my tallest sunflowers that were reaching way above the chicken coup roof. I was happy that I had taken pictures of them a few days before the storm hit. I liked to sit on top of the roof, and watch them dance in the wind.

 

I made several vases of sunflowers out of the fallen ones, and put them in my house.

  

          They made the most beautiful bouquets.

 Though, the hail really damaged my greenhouse roof which was already cooked, black in places.

Now, in addition to be cooked.

It had abundant holes. 

Everywhere in the plastic. Like holey cheese. I came in there the other day, with the sun shining above, and it cast funny little sunlight spots on the wall.

So, I’ve been bandaging holes in my greenhouse roof, with tarp  tape. I started counting the holes as I was fixing them. And then decided it was a silly idea, because there were just too many.  We also found some discarded plastic that I’m putting on in the inside, to insulate it. Either way, I’m hoping I can make it work. It doesn't look like when it was first created. With beautiful white walls, and clear, clean plastic. Ah...sniff. Which is a little sad. I can't see the sky through this other plastic. But I felt quite satisfied today, patching the holes, drilling in some new plastic into the wood.

I guess, I did say to love the holes.

Pinches myself.

As for the fate of my garden. It was very beautiful. I enjoyed it so much. But the day after the blog post, I posted, saying I'd got the goats under control.

Hah!

Laughs.

Bitterly.

It rained! The rain started sprinkling on my tent, woke me up, not sure if I ever got to sleep, because I was worried that I might need to move the goats. I got up and moved the Billy goat back into the barn. It never occurred to me that the other goats weren't in the barn. The sneaks, broke into my garden, flooded into it, en mass to take shelter under the sunflowers.

The irony was, they were eating their shelter.

When I first saw them in there, I was so angry. I had no words.

They did not respond to my screeching of anger, and dismay. They just kept on eating, and stared at me with zero fear. They knew a good place, and wanted to stay put!

     No!

Bess came when she heard me screeching, and we both got them out.  Though the damage had already been done. My garden looked like a war torn zone, with my pots, and gardening things strewn about, like a great wind of goats had swirled through.

A goat herd cyclone.

Not a pretty sight. My trees. My vegetables! My sunflowers!

Munched. Eaten!

I channeled my anger into pounding posts, albeit belated. My fence needed more posts. I found two, and then I hunted around to find several more rods that sort of resembled posts. And pounded six of them into the ground with the post pounder.

Though my garden has already been munched.

I still have a few herbs, and tomatoes left, and the trees got a good pruning.

I had thought everything was ruined, but plants are pretty resilient, and some are starting to reappear, and my grandma's grape plant is starting to come back. And the sunflowers that are still standing, are fun to look at, though they've been very trimmed.

 The truth is, my garden was really mostly a sunflower garden. The sunflowers were so abundant, that everything below them had so much shade, they were all competing for sunlight.

My garden was beautiful.

It was yellow, and orangy, and brought a smile to my face.

It did its best, and so did I.

It was so jungle-like, I felt quite like I was stepping into some exotic place.

And the irony is, though the goats ate the popcorn that I had planted, someone gave us a huge 25lb bag of popcorn. Much more than my few growing popcorns would have produced.

 And a lady I gave lettuce to from my garden, wanted to pay me in 3 two dollar bills.

            I didn't expect anything in return, but she insisted. So that was a kind gesture.

            My sister, my mom and I were picking apricots at the time, we gave her a bag, and she was so happy to make a apricot pie.

            Then I took some apricots to another neighbor, and she came back with tomatoes.

            My sister brought us zucchini.

            Either way...

            Maybe I'm thinking too narrowly.

            My garden.

            Eaten.

            Gutted.

            Is still alive.

        Still living,

            So long as I give...

            Words.

            Sandwiches.

            Sunflowers.

            They all seem to be coming back in one form or another.  Though there wasn't much to give away to start with. But either way.

            I guess, my garden isn't in any specific place.

            My garden has no location.

            Therefore it has no fences.

            Therefore my garden is wherever I am at.

            In my greenhouse.

            Here, writing.

            Making music.

            So long as I am present.

            So long as I giving.

            My garden will always be safe.

            No holes are damaging when you realize there's nothing to make holes in.

            My garden is protected, even as the goats eat it.

            I'll milk them, and drink the sunlight they stole.

            And give away the energy it gives me, and so...

            This is my alchemy.

            My garden cannot be frosted.

            Snowed on.

            Eaten.

            Winded.

            Destroyed.    

            Or burned.

            It's inside, and outside.

            Growing in places I may not know.

            Flourishing everywhere light still shines. 

 

         

Phantom

 

  It’s quiet tonight-morning. 

It’s after four.

I got up and bumbled in the house to get my laptop, and brought I outside with me in my tent.

Can’t sleep.

 I feel anxiety, mixed with fear.

         Collectively, I wonder if that’s how we are all feeling?

              As we look at everyone, our family, our

 friends, and wonder…

             Do I love everyone enough? Am I doing enough?

 I feel that everyone is on such different frequency, that sometimes, me, just beaming me, is sometimes just not a good match for most people, no matter what I do or don't do.

Sometimes I walk into a room, and can feel the energy of the person, and the energy of myself, and it’s so different, it causes…this phantom pain.

  Where I thought love was a doing...

                             But love is a being.

                                      A state.

   And most feel love only in verb form.

  In action, or reaction.

In a moving. In direct relationship to your you, being in proximity to them. And your you, doing tasks that are serving this collective idea. Of being in frequency of served, and server.

 But if that was true, that love is only a verb…

 That love is only something you can hold, taste, touch, control. Then that would delete most of our believe system for loving God.

    Because we cannot see this all-powerful creative force, much less call this power on the phone, and then ask it, or demand it to mold to our preference.

 Yet we say to love God, while we mistreat ourselves, and others, that we do see, and place conditions on.

 Why are some people harder to love, than others? This is an old pain kicking around inside me. It feels like a toothache of soul.

Where you can’t quite put your finger on the pain. But it’s there, a phantom pain, when you feel into it, it hovers just out of reach.

 

 Misty.

 Illusive.

 Moaning in the darkest hours of night, whispering of should haves, and might have beens, and what could be.

  When you can see the course and patterns of your life, but you have no idea how to change those patterns. When you see everyone doing their dance, and all you can do is be a space, when everyone wants something more solid, and controllable.

       Here is that phantom pain.

Who are you? You both ask.

 It groans, and takes the forms of those you love.

What do you want?

It has no answer, but it does want something.

 It shows you everything you feel deficient in.

  What should I do, you ask it?

  Then a list appears.

A doer list, things, if you changed, you feel might make the pain go away. But deep down, you know this is not true.

            It’s an old pain.

 And doing mostly masks the pain.

 Hides it in another form, for it to reappear later, so it can give you another list. And you serve this phantom, and still it moans, because it can’t be happy, because now you know what love is.

                               Love is.

                      It is a state. Not a if, then, state. Not a place you’ll someday get to.

                  So serving this phantom, while staying in the knowing, agitates it more. Because its power was your ignorance, its power was in keeping you lost looking for the love you are. So now it has no place to hide, and still it groans, sill wanting you to serve it.

An idea that love was a gettable thing, in the distant someday. This phantom becomes more cranky when you see its game.

     When you know that love is much more than a verb. It is a real, tangible force. A frequency of being, a state of vibration, a place that doesn’t falter, or diminish.

 And sometimes, we come and look, and allow the phantom to be just what it is.

      A broken mirror. 

Of things that were once clear.

It gets confused. 

Especially when it looks into your mirror--for it has seen itself fractured for so long, in other phantom mirrors.

   It is frightened.

 At its wholeness.

 Seeing, for perhaps, the first time, that it isn’t a phantom at all.

                                            

Peace talks

A beautiful sunset in a huge puddle by my house

I'm going through old stuff, and new stuff.

Scribbling stuff down. 

Looking at thing's I've written and wondering if it's too old to share. Too new to share. If I should share it at all.

What makes something worth sharing?

The question of my life.

 This made me laugh, so I'm sharing a conversation me and my sister had a while ago. I wrote it down, because it made me laugh.

Me, "Our family talks too much. I think mom fed everyone too many tacos."

What would be the counter spell to that? Bess asked.

We both paused...

"Ah," Bess's eyes lit up. "Hush puppies."

Yes! WE both agreed.

Yes.

Everyone is talking too much. Right now, everything feels huge, and amplified, it feels like words are bubbling out from everyone's skin pores.

It feels like there's just one endless stream of words coming in, and out everyone, without any pause.

Where are the listeners?

The ponderers?

The soul people, who have something worth saying?

It feels like everybody's mouths cannot shut up. It's like one person's mouth stops, and another one begins.

Whoot!

I finally understand why God confounded the languages.

It seems like a smart thing to do. He just wanted everyone to meditate for a couple days, listen to nature. To quiet down, so he could think his own thoughts. Then everyone would have to figure out a different way of communicating.

Maybe after a little pause, they would have something worth sharing.

So many egos talking about someone else's egos. Or one mask talking about another person's mask. That's all conversations summed up right here.

The them, didn't do something to make, me happy. Bad them.

Good me.

Or, That Big Scary, it's coming! Scary, scary. That Big Scary, Boo! Yes. Ohhh... shivers.

Spooky!

Oh, and that bad government them, the thems over there.

Watch out.

Oh, those weird thems.

And so the story goes....

Thems...

Over there thems.

Yonder, look, there's more, thems.

The thems that don't, or do, doing themy things.

What shall we do?

I told Bess I think that we're all born in into mismatched families.

Family's that were coded differently. A zoo family, with lions, and birds, and monkies trying to communicate, trying to feed each other monkey food, or fish food, when we are not any of those creatures.

It makes sense that our souls might be frustrated. We are trying to find resonance with a soul blueprint that never feels quite authentic---one is a mermaid, another a unicorn, one is a falcon, one, a rabbit, one a tree soul, one a fairy, one a bluebird, one a elk, one a bear, one a swan, one swims, one flies, one walks, one is rooted, one wanders, one stays, one has magic.

No one is wrong.

But when you live together, it can feel wrong. Converting to everyone to your religion of water, when one feels their soul in the air, or eating berries in the woods, or peddling their love of bananas.

Would you say any one of these things is bad. No. Just a blueprint difference for variety, and fun.

Yes.

And perhaps, if we started seeing this, maybe we could have peace talks.

Talks that were enlightening, not fight-ening.

Instead of using words for division, we'd use them like echo-locators, clicks, and sounds that helps us find our way in the dark.

 

Music, and beautiful words that are simple, and true, and honest. Sharing beautiful thoughts, without our open carry egos, we use to intimidate, or harass.  To look big or powerful.

 

Our conversations wouldn't have to always be filled with sound, but silence, too. Comfortable. Easy. Back and forth.

 

I taught Sunday school class for nearly eight years, to small children. I realized early on, that no one will listen to you, unless you listen to them.

So I would bring a talking stick. Something someone held, while everyone listened.

 

It really was the lesson, mostly, because by the time everyone had a say, the lesson was very short. There would always be one kid that would fold his arms, and frown, and ask when we were going to get to the important stuff.

This was the important stuff.

Learning to listen.

Sharing the talking stick.

Passing it around.

If we could all get that one thing right, without holding the talking stick too long, and pass it around, then listening quietly, who knows what might happen.

Everyone wouldn't feel quite like they were in a caged Zoo.

But in a beautiful jungle, or a rain forest, free, and interested in everything, and everyone.

            Peace talks.

            But it also, listens, too.

           

Grace notes

 My sister and I had a lovely day.

It was one of those beautiful, September days. A holy day. A day where sunlight dances on leaves, and looks whiter, cleaner, purer. If light can look any more light.

It was an allowing day.

Where the energy felt kinder, less static.

The green, greener.

And hope clings on the edges of the sunlit leaves, kissing them.

The air felt soft, and loving, with that autumn tang everyone can taste, and smell, and feel. The apples are starting to fall off the trees, and the air is getting cooler outside.

Dragon flies have been buzzing everywhere. It’s fun to ride my bike, and have them zig, and sag alongside me, as if we are racing.

Our neighbor offered us a load of chopped wood. We’ve been meaning to gather wood for some time. So Bess and I went to go get a couple loads. It was quite fun, and so much easier than going to the mountains to get wood. And they had the wood all slit. We felt very lucky. And thankful.  By the time we were done, the sun had set.

I was about to go to bed, but the mosquito tuck zipped by, spraying poison. I was in my tent, so I ran inside, and rested. Then I decided to play some koto, and then decided to write some.

I’m trying to learn how to tune the first five strings of the koto mostly by ear. And I’m still getting the hang of it.

It’s funny, because if you tune the first five notes of the koto, you can tune all the rest of the strings. But you have to get the first five notes right.

Harp strings.

I feel like if I could do this with my writing, if I could get the first five notes right. Tune my heart, to my higher self, spirit mind, if I could flow without stopping or starting myself, and trying to fix notes in the middle of playing them.

If I could do this.

If I could tune them to some higher keys, and be clear enough that whatever I played at, the notes would be as smooth, and easy as breathing in and out, and easy to let go of, and easy to allow to be.

A sound.

That, for a moment, vibrates, and for a moment, we are in tune to the sound.

Some beautiful chord.

Grace notes.

Now nice they sound.

If all my words were filled with those little trills.

Notes that don’t have to be there, but, if you can add them, make a beautiful, sound.

Yes.

We all need grace notes.

For ourselves, and everyone else.

Words that you give out, in the inbetween places.

Unexpected.

Beautiful.

Grace notes.

A kind word.

A seeing and a saying that doesn’t have to be there, but is, because it adds something beautiful.

A thank you.

A smile.

These are the things that add a richness, a vitality, a goodness to this life.

An expected hand to carry things that are too heavy.

A patch of sun in a middle of a storm.

A cheek turned, an extra mile walked.

Grace notes.

These are the things that can end battles.

And why do such notes exist?

Why should we give them, over, and over again?

Because giving grace notes keep your heart open, they are the little door jam making sure light still gets through.

And so…

I’m just here for a moment.

And these are my thoughts tonight.

Grace notes.

And sometimes we have to give them to ourselves.

That moment you stop working when your body is tired.

Grace notes.

When you forgive yourself.

Grace notes.

When you allow yourself.

Grace notes.

When you flow, and find that childlike wonder, that keeps no scores, and plays, and follows fun, explores, and cries when something hurts, and laughs when something is funny, and tells the truth without fear.

Grace notes.

Beams of undiluted light.

When you trill out, unexpectedly, fearlessly. A little ray of truth floats out of your mouth.

A moment you love yourself in ways that only you could.

That is my aim.

And if I fall short.

I suppose I’ll sing again.

A little grace note that says,

I’ve just popped in to say, hello.

Life is beautiful.

The sun is still shining.

Good hearts still exist.

Birds still fly.

Flowers still bloom.

And like a suncatcher, we catch these notes, and when the sunlight hits a facet, a grace note comes through, a rainbow dances on the windowsill for you to catch with your eyes, and hold in your hearts.