Some of my passwords are the name of my childhood white donkey that died last year.
Threads of your soul wind around you. Ocean metaphors are apt, depths can release unexpected items that may retain qualities of treasure or be nearly destroyed by the forces of time.
Your soul talks to you. It is hard to listen, and if you do- you realize how often you want to do things that you don't do. Once I had a dream that I was in a huge sunlit room, that was dark like a room made of real oak. Like a picture from old times of rooms that are no longer built. The light shifted down in huge beams, illuminated by the dust. Like how you see sunlight in woods when there is smoke.
On my kitchen window I have a small metal buddha that I bought when I was 10 from an Indian shop keeper in Wooster, Ohio who rubbed his hands together when he sold things. Once I burned wax on my fingers and dripped it on the buddha. Then the buddha lived in a special corner of the barn at the old house we lived in near killbuck, Ohio.
Right now I am not sure if I live in the best place for me to breathe. But I like it here.
so... fat with complacency, or do it- changes.
Red curtains. December. Supposedly there will be a blizzard tommorow.
Another way to say that is 12- 20 inches of snow and heavy winds. A blizzard sounds better.
Humans are special because we can really love so many things. we can really love in so many ways. But, we don't do it enough. And waste our greatest gift. Net it. Put it out. If it were a fire. Other things take precedence.
Verbs for love are burning, falling. Not treeing. Growing. Being. The roots that uphold everything. The self that stretches so long it can topple. Uproot.
down root. grow like a carrot.