A wet blue bathmat under Winter bare feet, just another of the thousand things that need to be cleaned.
But first, myself. Two minutes in warmth, I become me again. The first line of these words, I hold through the droplets.
Out into the air, steps upon a wet blue bathmat under warm showered feet, just another of the thousand things that need to be cleaned.
But first, my pen to set these words free. As I sit in my corner. The light from the small window lands on my hand.
The tableau of life others see, life as it is from this side of the window, seems without effort. While others dream, sweetly.
Life is still and semi-ordered, as much as I can give, without consuming my peace. Still in its usual usual, until the unordered comes into being.
Expectations expected. Orders of life disguised as soft questions. Unusual grace offered to me in this light.
In my robe, in my thoughts, in my being, quietly. Expressing the expressions, again with cold feet.
But now, if the tableau tilts, the guilt invades not the life.
I sit with my pen. I sit with my thoughts. I sit with the light.
I’ll dress, dry my hair and continue to write. Even if, in mind, stepping on wet bath mats, or washing dishes, this being interbeing will remember to grace myself with the grace of even a tilted tableau, and a pen in hand.
My pen and I commune with the light.
For writing is, and always will be a revolutionary act of radical self love to my very being.
with radical love,
🌈💜
~namaste~
