I feel tired. Yes, I’ll take my iron.
My car wouldn’t start this morning. I think it’s my battery. I need jumper cables. Or a new car. Or an overhaul.
I received news of Jack Layton’s passing this morning. I am lighting a candle for him this evening, though it may have to be before 9; that’s almost way past my bedtime.
Fine humans come and go all the time. Our job is to remember and honour their memory, and live our own lives fully and mindfully, to be kind and generous as we are able. A smile is free.
With photos of Jon Bacon emblazoned all over the news since last week, I will light a candle for him, too. May it light his way to a better place than the one he was anchored to in this life. May his loved ones find peace and their mourning be soothed, because losing a loved one hurts no less whether the soul of the one lost is blemished or blemish free.
I’ve forgotten my cell phone on my desk at the office and feel like I’m missing an appendage.
I took transit today, and liked it.
The Mexican food place I got my taco salad at lunch today refries the black beans too. Even though I’m not a huge fan of Mexican food, I miss Baja Fresh, Chipotle, Jardine’s de San Juan Bautista and Don Jose’s, not necessarily in that order.
It’s raining again, and feels like it’s settling in (like a guest that was coming for a weekend stay but ends up hanging around, grazing his way through the contents of your pantry while you are away at work), though they promise that it will stop by tomorrow. I don’t believe them.
I live in a rainforest. It’s beautiful. It’s wet. Sometimes the two are not mutually exclusive, but mostly they are.
I have renegade ferns lining the stairs along the side of the house that lead down to my front door. I wanted to take a photo of them but my camera battery is out of juice. So depending upon whether it recharges by the time I am done composing this post, the top of the page may or may not have a pretty picture of a fern on it.
Everything is green outside, but don’t let that fool you; leaves have begun yellowing and are falling out like hanks of hair. And then I remember that summer has begun waning since June 21st, even though it feels as though it only just arrived. I miss it already.
Just now my neighbours upstairs sound like a horde of pygmies engaged in dancing a jig. It must be in thanks for the Wilton cake decorating books I unloaded on them this weekend, which I’d decided had done their job (and long ago outgrown their usefulness, seeing that Gabriel no longer wishes for cakes festooned with Godzilla upending tall buildings or cakes shaped like a Nascar with bright red icing).
Most other times what I hear is a trail of thunderous steps pound across the ceiling. I must remind myself, again, why it is that I choose to live on a bottom floor beneath people who have (clearly) previously never lived on a bottom floor.
I love fall. I love the woodsy pungent smell of wet leaves, and how they feel when, dry, they crunch underfoot. I love how the air is crisp like a freshly picked apple, and the darkness holds promises of things that can’t be reached during any other time, and the veil feels so thin that I can almost reach over and pull it aside… almost.
The scent of pumpkins and cloves and cinnamon make me happy.
I walked in through the door this evening and was greeted by the sound of lovely flute and sitar music; I’d left the music playing when I left this morning so that the peace that reigned yesterday during my very long meditation would endure. It has.
My left trap and sub-scapular muscles hurt. I have fantasies about acupuncture needles, envisioning becoming a human pincushion. This is a way to anticipate the relief from the pain that has yet to come.
I am contemplating dinner; a protein shake is about all the effort I wish to exert in the way of food preparation. Which means I must wash the blender out first. I wish I had a dishwasher; human or mechanical, any kind will do.
I am looking forward to reading some more of The Pagan Christ by Tom Harpur, a book I recently picked up and have begun to read.
The scent of frankincense, myrrh, sandalwood, gopal, sage, cedar, benzoin, dragon’s blood and palo santo lingers. I wonder if anyone else has ever concocted such a satisfying and cross-cultural combination to represent the air element.
The words of Gavriel Navarro have the power to move me and I am grateful; at the end of my soul’s movement, hope stirs.