Not feeling so wonderful.

No time for diaries, no time for poetry, no time for rants or musings.

It's true what they say about renovations. Even though mine are going fairly well, it seems interminable and the stress is laid out across my shoulders like some fat cat.

It's true what they say about blended families. FUCKING HARD WORK.

It's true what they say about trying to be a writer. Prepare for lots of disappointment and heartache.

Dropping my ms into an assessor tonight. Which is good. Didn't get into the course I wanted. Which is bad.

Everywhere I turn, I am assaulted with noise and I really don't like it. Skipping buddhism class today and going back to bed to read.

How are you?

What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

The Summer Day

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean -
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down -
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now, she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

Mary Oliver



I love the way this poem sneaks up on you at the end.

What do you plan to do with your ONE life?

Yeah, I'm going all buddhist on yo asses.