Ten.Five Hundred & Sixty-Eight
I didn’t write the newsletter. I decide not to let it bother me too much.
Words feel so distant. I think I’m allowed to still be floundering after such a transition. Yet, there is this desire to have everything need and tidy and predictable.
Gray morning and a cup of hot coffee. A little piece of quiet before I go to work.
“I was saved from despair countless times by the flowers and the trees I planted.” - Alice Walker
Reading these makes me want to write a bunch of love poems.
The hiss of the iron. Pillows of steam floating into the air.
I wave to the hawk standing guard on the post.
He’s explaining wine to her in their native language. Something eastern European but I can pick out little bits and pieces. I know just enough of a few other languages to be able to eavesdrop rather effectively.
I could write 100 books based on the people I meet here. This is kind of a thrilling idea.
He drags me out of bed and brings out the camera so that I can see the moon. She is a wonder for sure. I’m glad he’s forced my out. I had been completely content with the idea of missing it, but I would have regretted it.