“A writer – and, I believe, generally all persons – must think that whatever happens to him or her is a resource. All things have been given to us for a purpose, and an artist must feel this more intensely. All that happens to us, including our humiliations, our misfortunes, our embarrassments, all is given to us as raw material, as clay, so that we may shape our art.” ~ Jorge Luis Borges
“I think it’s much more interesting to live not knowing than to have answers which might be wrong. I have approximate answers and possible beliefs and different degrees of uncertainty about different things, but I am not absolutely sure of anything and there are many things I don’t know anything about, such as whether it means anything to ask why we’re here. I don’t have to know an answer. I don’t feel frightened not knowing things, by being lost in a mysterious universe without any purpose, which is the way it really is as far as I can tell.” ~ Richard Feynman
It’s over now, the Full Moon, the emotional intensity, the magic. Well . . . not the magic. That hangs around all the time, as far as I can tell; it’s just that it is pretty much always nearly impossible to see. The thing about that is you don’t see it to connect with it. Faith and perseverance are what it takes. Then you must ask for connection. Or at least that’s what I do. And I have to be willing to remain consciously aware, and metaphorically step back, as a symbol of willingness to accept the reply to your request. I know how to create happiness at most needed and/or voluntary times, but I haven’t reached any significant level of patience and acceptance . . . yet. No worries, there’s still time. As for now, in this moment, it’s nap cat on her paper grocery bag on the floor, the tail end of the coffee, a sweet chill in the dark morning air, and the whispering of Brighid, almost giggling. Whatever. I feel good about the day, although I woke up to fairly intense shoulder pains. A couple of tokes and about a half an hour of moving around and stretching like a cat. The thought I want to carry into the day, as my guide stone, to facilitate the connection to whatever it is that doles out magic. This thing tickles me: the young woman at the dispensary knows me by name. As an old barefoot island hippie boy I find that very amusing. Who knew, right? Cannabis stores? You gotta be yanking my leg! Never happen; no way, no how . . . says my younger self. No worries.
Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.