blasted flowers ahem …
wrote one thousand eleven hundred odd words in the narrative of The Front Porch today after in counseling she asked about writing and I was like, meh … I wrote last week — that is bad of me — so I wrote — determined to at least write a paragraph and I LOVED LOVED it. I am a writer.
So who forgets that I am a writer?
The painter, what have you.
Anyhoo. I loved it. A difficult passage I’m in but even so, the psychology of getting through it, humans getting through a very difficult passage lovingly. Humanely. I’m all over it. Wears me out though somewhat.
Then painted, which was glorious.
Now I rest.
Meditation is hard. Sometimes I choose to feel, to process. To be. To observe is not to be in the same kind of way. I’ve found. It’s dissociated from being. Observing from a distance with plugs pulled. As it were. But breathing. Yes.
kay gone to rest now.