Stain-glass Eyes

I keep a weekly chart in my Bullet Journal. And in the section for “Habits” I track my progress. For a couple of months I’ve had one of the boxes labeled “Write”. “A few sentences”, that’s all the comfort-center of my brain asks from me.   It encourages, “Just a bit,” With a small pat on my back. With frustration I look at the boxes, week after week, reminded. Reminded I’m limited, reminded I want, want, want more out of myself. I’ve injured my arm (from overuse). I have to restrict how I use the arm then gauge my progress and adjust, for now, with the help of an occupational therapist. When I write, click, press and slide on my computer to post for my blog, it takes hours of time. Write - revisit - revise - rethink ——-what and how I want to word something. Sometimes it’s trash and I start over. Three days ago I decided to write before the sun was up. I sat upright, shoulders back and relaxed my arms. “Just get the ideas in print”, I encourage myself.   A small amount a day. Just to be

  I’ve spent most of my life believing I understand people. Now, not so much. First of all, if I was truly going to understand others I’d have to peel away my own complexities to understand  myself .   Their inner layers are deep and sometimes I’m tempted to bounce over “take-off-the-peeling” part and just throw them into a pot, generalize and be done with the hard work of understanding their intricacies. So…another dig. I can pare under the outer epidermis of myself, but so many times I feel a slight wrinkle and wiggle and quickly let it grow over again. A dig means there are some surprises which lead to further digs. It can help me know more about me but it also be terrifying. It does intrigue me though. It’s a challenge. (The fact I have a need to live in a world other than my own is also an incentive) Honestly, maybe other people are not open for anyone to understand them. Maybe I’m not either on any given day of the week. Our shields and camouflage are firm layers. For me time to

“ You may not control all the events that happen to you, but you can decide not to be reduced by them .” — Maya Angelou On my brown chair, (which fits just right for my short stature), I sit. I can see the wind blow the long spindly branches of a tree out the window. Cold but no snow. Dreary, darkish and almost oppressive, but I try not to let it inside. I keep it out. Being a fairly optimistic person I’ve decided weather wasn’t going to keep me from writing on the first day of 2024.     Life stuff is on my mind. What’s ahead and what’s passed. No one can say a year passes without their life being altered in some way! It would be untrue. It changes constantly. We celebrate, improve, regress, cope, struggle, assess and move forward. There’s something to the statement “ Live each day as if it’s your last ”. Not that I think it’s possible, but I do think we could get rid of a lot of non-essential, trivial habits and obsessions that take up big chunks of the day.  To decide what we need a

I’m feeling the sun come through my window while at my old teacher's desk on this cold morning.   Humans I see outside are using caution with their steps walking or jogging in the snow. On the other side of my apartment the moon shows itself at the same time as the sun. I sit down to write with my coffee freshly poured and steaming over the lip of the cup, next to me. My eyes partially blinded by the warmth of the sun. Do I Really Think  Love Can Be Controlled? My heart wants freedom to move as it wishes. Instead it often (knowingly), takes a key to wind itself. Like love is an old clock. Trying to get the correctness.   The minute to minute calculations. Can love be gauged by these ministrations? In calculated turns and careful devotion, My heart has chosen to see love as a function. The nature of love is locked in. It wants its freedom. I tell my heart “Love’s innocence is lost in gears, weights and pendulums”. “Love isn’t about exact functionality”. “Love is love because it is l