Suffering. Stop. Separate. Self-ness.
Staying. a Sanctuary.
Recorded words. Words that breathe into my ears as basil comes to me in a warm wind. A scent. And then pine cones tumble. A piano, a woman’s voice, drifts through the open door. I ponder my essential self, but through skin, not mind.
What is missing? A mound of petals.
***
This commitment to daily writing is both guiding and restricting. Very Saturn in that way. On one hand, I cannot flee. I am forced to cultivate mindful moments from which to draw upon. On the other, in moments of opportunity, I run ahead of myself, seeking words to describe and form product, which inhibits. The blog both invites process and denies it.
But I notice. And invite Mara to tea, embracing what he brings me today. Frustration does not lift, but it moves aside to make room for other things.
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