Stare into a bucket of water until your reflection appears.
Then gently pour the reflection out onto the ground.
Soon it will evaporate
And become a cloud.
Then it will rain
And you will be part of the great cycle of refreshment and growth.
Stare into a bucket of water until your reflection appears.
Then gently pour the reflection out onto the ground.
Soon it will evaporate
And become a cloud.
Then it will rain
And you will be part of the great cycle of refreshment and growth.
Dear Hopeful2Read
Thank you for your note. I understand your wanting a new blog entry to read, but I ask you to please be patient and understand that creative resources are currently at an all time low. The reasons for this are innumerable, and in some cases exceptional. I wonder, perhaps, if you have ever been attacked by a llama? No? Me either, but I ask you to imagine the effects of such an event and to apply these same effects, perhaps without the physical injury, to this here situation. Consider that where a meandering, field-clambering llama was once a great harvester of joy, he is now, in fact, the very opposite. I regret this sad fact, but it is nonetheless true. Until the harvesting and the joy returns, please accept my next blog entry as a token of my appreciation of your readership. It is something special that I wish to share with you in lieu of my inability to come up with something special myself.
Your humble, llama-bitten chum
Tegan
You met me at the river’s side. It was early afternoon and I’d just walked for an hour in the sun. It was August, still winter, but the pavement was hot and my black jeans were tight and itchy and absorbing the heat, I guess as I should have expected them to. You liked those jeans, had told me they fitted well, so I wore them, even though I knew it was warm out and had taken sunglasses, which I usually forget to do even in December or January. You couldn’t possibly know how sore my feet were. I smiled serenely when you arrived.