Once upon a time there was a girl who ached to pick up her pen. The one she had carried with her for so very long had always been positioned to write someone else's story. She found it harder and harder to be able to extract truths from others tales. The pen got heavier and heavier.
Once upon a time there was a girl who remembered that her camera was a lense that could be used to reorganize perspective. When she found a photo to meditate on, often the words would drip off of her interior walls like the calcium drips on stalactites, and she'd watch a page of herself appear on her laptop monitor.
Once upon a time there was a girl who'd feel the energy and art brimming inside of her, and as it quaked, the companions of confidence and certainty would arrive. Yet, on days when the light dimmed like the moons of Saturn hide on a cloudy night, the universe revealed a hole that enthusiasm, confidence and certaintyl slithered down. She would summon the strengths of the harpies, and occasionally sound a bit shrewish, and often she could power through, and be content with what was enough. But sometimes, the light was very dim, and there was nothing to do but sit and wait. And practice being gentle, practice acceptance, and get really good at waiting.
I'm feeling kind of down about this weekend. I'm not sure why -- it was truly marvelous in many ways. Soccer game. House tour. Bombay Club brunch. Garden expansion. Massages. Etc. But there's been a smidge of discontent eaking it's way in. I hope just writing about it will obliterate any last bit daring to weedle it's way into Monday.
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