My roommate brought home her friend Sam.
Sam was an attractive man. Tall, dark, and lanky, just was my type.
My roommate had such interesting friends.
She was interesting, herself. She was a peculiar, shining soul, filled with Buddhist drive and love.
Sam was her schizophrenic homeless friend.
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When I was thirteen, my grandmother died.
My heart, my soul, my grandmother.
This precipitated my relationship with my father.
I knew I had a father, and I knew what he looked like and who he was, generally.
I could pick him from a crowd if I needed to.
(For your listening pleasure: Shpongle, When Shall I be Free?)
Being grounded is a beautiful tool in creating my experience.
Being aware, being present, it allows me to truly attract into my life that which I am desiring.
I was approached with an idea today, an idea I don’t know that I can turn down. It involves research and writing. And it’s a topic for which I have passion. Now I must select a pseudonym and push forward with self-discipline and dedication. After all, there’s no test of a writer than their ability to be self-directed and write.
Some folks might sigh and say, “Another Holy Grail Book?” But I? I love esoteric stories such as this. There’s a beautiful undercurrent in life that is rejuvenated by the thrill of ancient secrets, historic stories, and mysterious adventure. And if anyone can write about this subject and keep it spell-binding, it is Kate Mosse.
What is it to be filled with wonder?
I am attempting to be more aware. This is a constant struggle, some days it seems.
This morning, I listened to music on my drive to work. MY music.
My hand-picked music.
My soul.
I sang at the top of my lungs.
And danced. Driver danced.
Gaia cleanses herself.
We (humans) are a hyper populous breeding parasite.
The earth has its own immune system.
Of course we as human will try to protect ourselves.
And it’s only natural that we will be emotionally attached to the loss of human life, especially in great numbers.
But, will I feel hopeless if major natural disasters begin to wipe us out?
I overheard him, on the phone with his friend.
“Yeah, man, you know, the mousy girl?”
Mousy.
I suppose there are worse things you could be referred to as. Slutty. Stupid. Bitchy.
Forever mousy. I’ll never get that out of my head.
I suppose I *am* a little mousy.
She clicks her pen incessantly. It’s such an ingrained habit that she doesn’t even know that she’s doing it.
He noticed, though.
There were others in the waiting room. Some wearing masks, some looking hung over, and one who stared mindlessly at her own twiddling fingers. The clicking caught his attention first, but the woman clack click clacking was what endlessly held it.
