These poor little bears sat in a box for months. I see my table now, this new table in my new home, centered between two windows with the sun beaming in, and all the months that went by do not seem to matter so much. I am doing this now. Maybe it was meant to be done now.

Ah, but that’s such a cliché!

But truly, we set projects aside and feel guilty. The inner dialogue is thrown into a loop, reasoning that procrastination, incompetency, distraction, or laziness are the obvious downfall of an otherwise creative mind. All clichés as well, by the way.

No. The truth is simpler than that. We stop what we are doing when we are no longer moved to continue. Being, it turns out, requires a sort of natural, spiritual momentum. The momentum that comes from doing is of another kind altogether. And the momentum that carries a project from the imagination to manifestation, and completion, is not bound by time. Nor can it be forced by it.

To be continued…

A place to read in the morning light. A place to ground myself, to grow myself. I love the rising sun, how the day begins quietly, the entire world seemingly still asleep. Only me. Safe. My space. My time. My eternity. My peace.

The words flow from the page. I drink them. I thirst for knowledge, for the rising sun of new consciousness at the center of my heart and mind, for the awakening of a new understanding. One that uplifts and rebirths.

Then, a flood. July 2023. The reading ritual carried away by dirty, tiny waves. The books, not all of them, rescued in plastic totes as in a time capsule to be reopened someday. But When? In an eternity? That’s what uncertainty would have me believe, yet the raging mountainside river that washed my world away carried me uphill to an even brighter world.

October 2023. Early morning. I resume my long interrupted reading ritual. A new life chapter begins. I am blessed. February. Spring will be beautiful here.