a bright blue morning

i fell asleep writing a sonnet last night.

as i shut off the light, there were rumblings of thunder, and bright flashes of lightning; the rain speaking wisdoms on the roof.
i seem to be getting quite a few messages these days:

*it's anniversary time. and yet! it's also the present. and in the present we are able to do what we will. i choose to be informed by memories, and patterns, and cycles. and i choose to be in the now, in happiness. what will you choose to do with your anniversary times?

*it's the time of heading inside after taking it all in, and beginning the great sorting. what to keep? what to throw? i still have a lot to throw. remember the thrill of throwing a baseball so hard it almost hurt your arm? and then hearing that satisfying thwack as it hit someone's glove. whatever i throw, someone else will catch. and whatever i throw, makes room for ... the present.

*the metaphors of the natural world are forever overwhelming me: i heard about john muir last night, wondering if leaves get lonely on the branches as they watch their companions fall. there is relief in the falling (as in the throwing), in letting go, and letting yourself land on soft warm earth. especially when there's the possibility of being collected by children on rainy walks, who can't wait to share you as their treasure.

*therapy days are wonderful.

so it is.