Do you open your neighbor’s garden gate, stomp through their rosebed, and then sit down on their patio?
The garden gate and the fence around the flowerbed mark the property line that we do not cross without the neighbor’s permission. In most cases, we can also easily perceive physical boundaries: if someone touches us, we quickly register whether or not we are comfortable with it and act accordingly.
I couldn’t find the right words for it, and was unable to pinpoint my desire. Did it even have a name? The wish to have less restlessness, to be less overwhelmed, less of everything? Less cleaning, less sorting, fewer worries, no overthinking?
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“The ordinary man has always been sane because the ordinary man has always been a mystic. He has permitted the twilight.
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My workroom is a mess, but I’ve completed all projects on time, actually, a couple of days earlier than planned. My customers were pleased and very appreciative. A gigantic poinsettia is now displayed on our window, and a gift basket full of gluten and dairy goodness has been regifted to a neighbor’s home, and it will make their Christmas a bit heavier.
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My husband passed his stress test and got the cardio clearance for his DOT card, the permission to drive commercial trucks, which he sometimes needs to do when a driver calls off in the morning.
Scott’s post touched my heart, and it also gave me a heavy dose of keep it real. I fell in love with writing while blogging. Now it’s no longer a love affair, but a real hobby, something I do for my entertainment.
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I have left the stage of nervousness behind a long time ago. I am now a calm mess. No fidgeting, just a quiet stage of waiting to hear the verdict. It’s going to be good because the bad already happened. It can’t happen again.
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Hope is not the thing with feathers
That comes home to roost
When you need it most.
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A monthly review, late as usual. September, a month full of surprises, life just the way it’s supposed to be. “My wife will divorce me,” a statement made by my husband at an eye exam. It’s so typical for him, but he meant it.
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My husband, the crazy, wonderful man I have been married to for decades, worked 14 hours straight, two days in a row. Which—how do I put it mildly—is completely insane.