Tuesday, September 13, 2016


I've been mowing my yard since noon. It's now 2:38 p.m. I've been taking tons of breaks, drinking lots of water, sitting, wiping my sweaty face with a damp paper towel. My joke has been that I'm not going to push myself the way some public figures/Presidential candidates are pushing themselves because I don't want my image falling down one of my little slopes to be plastered on newspapers, to go viral on YouTube, with some caption about a weak woman attempting to do a man's job.

Ha. So funny. Ha ha.

This sitting in sweat is comforting. It reminds me that I have a capable—if out of shape—body, a vessel for my ridiculous thoughts, for my ponderings, for my stories and poems, even for the works I edit.

Bodies aren't magical, but they are sacred.

My friend weed whacks for me. I know he wants to finish up the bits of mowing I said I'm too tired to accomplish (I'll be back out there in about five minutes), but he hurt his arm a couple of weeks ago, an arm that's already been injured from too much drumming, too much piano over the 62 years of his life.

I'm not going to let a man with an injury do the job this woman should be doing since it's my yard and not his.

I'll buy him a burger as thanks for weed whacking.

I'm live journaling again, just typing into the window without a plan. Type, type, mutter, mutter, blather, blather.

My sweat is drying salty on my skin, and I perversely like the way it tastes when I lick my lips.

Another gulp of water, and I'm back to it. A long job, but it's my fault for "firing" my yard guy (by starting to mow myself when he didn't show up for too long) and by buying this wretched house with its yard that's bigger than it looks (twelve years I've lived here).

This movement is good for me, though. Movement gives me creative ideas. Later, I'll write something real, or start writing something real. And I'll continue to figure out what I want to do next to "thrive" and to continue to "serve."

Monday, September 12, 2016


1. This post is "live," meaning I'm typing it directly into my blogger window. I'm also not looking at the screen or the keys since it's lovelier to watch my cat inching closer and closer to the sunspot in the kitchen. I will proofread before I click "publish," though.

2. I'm working on a decision regarding my future as a human being, what my role is, how I can serve, whether I've been "serving" in ways that keep me from thriving, especially creatively. This place where I live ...

3. I'm not as free to make the choice I want to make as I'd like (money matters), but I'm certain that my getting in my own way more than lack of resources is what's keeping me less free.

4. I have been writing much of the day, but I'm not satisfied that this work is The Work. I'm getting closer, though.

5. I have to decide what I want to do about building my freelance business. I love kind of work I do; I'm good at it; but ...

6. I want to write poems, novels, and essays and work with young writers. I cannot make a living at this. Yet. If I could just remember to research and ask and apply and talk myself up, "yet" would be "now."

7. Sometimes I wake up in the morning and ask myself, "Have you decided that you want to live?"

8. I never answer myself.

9. This is enough.