Glimmers and Such

not-quite Journaling, 57

In a New York garden, she roars (or yawns) her feelings into the world.

7/17/2023: My red amaryllis is blooming rather expressively. This is the first year this one flowers in summer. I think that after weeks of coughing, crappy sleep, headaches, and back pain, Nature decided to brighten my day with a bit of unseasonal magic.

 

a glimmer:
bees and ladybugs
kissing blooms

7/21/2023: According to my dearest and sweetest, Rommy, “a glimmer is the exact opposite of a trigger—it is some kind of cue, either internal or external, that brings one back to a sense of joy or safety.” Pollinators soothe my soul, naturally. Care to share one (or 2, or 3…) of your glimmers?

 

Be you; regret be damned.

7/25/2023: If it makes me happy and hurts none, I do it--no guilt. My relationship with that particular emotion doesn’t go beyond this thought, by Voltaire: “Every (wo)man is guilty of all the good (s)he did not do.” Especially the good which might’ve improved her life.

 

pure delight:
tomatoes I’ve grown
to snack on

7/28/2023: Every time I walk out to my balcony to pick (and taste) a tomato (or 15), my tummy grins. Of course, my tummy can grin! Can’t yours?


- for Poets and Storytellers United--Friday Writings #87: What Pleases You? I am pleased by growth, by reciprocal love, by small magics, by hope that spreads, by words that uplift, by determination, by self-reliance, by things I’ve grown from seed to yum…

“nothing is more telling than a story”

not-quite Journaling, 56

for summer,
sweet amaryllis
peekaboos

6/21/2023: My amaryllis is celebrating the first day of summer by glimpsing prettily out of her verdant hood. My exhausted lungs and I shall join the festivities after seeing the pulmonologist.

 

in my wee garden,
tomatoes and onions grow
zero soothing sleep

6/30/2023: When you live with chronic illnesses, something as seemingly simple as the common cold can be the unwanted gift that keeps on giving. My recent dance with a cold gifted me with a lingering cough that has been stealing my sleep for weeks. I’m exhausted. My body hurts. My mind is sluggish. I need sleep. But my tomatoes and onions look happy, so… good times.

 

7/1/2023: My Piano Man and I celebrated another anniversary. We’ve spent a lot of the day talking about our first date--my predatory grins, his slightly nervous smiles, our first grope… There is also a slight possibility that we’ve been walking around with happy-goofy looks on our faces. 

 

Freedom is a flame,
feed it.

7/4/2023: Or, as Juliet Marillier put it, “Every man or woman who makes a stand helps keep the flame of freedom burning.” So, be a woman; be a man. Let us stand for each other, and keep the freedom flame burning--specially these days, when so many freedoms are being smothered.

 

7/8/2023: For the one who told me that she wasn’t going to share her words anymore, because some a-hole said her writing wasn’t good enough. Sister, don’t let someone else’s issues muddle your ink--write, share, grow… and let the worth-vampires rot in their own malice.

 

7/11/2023: NYC is scorching, but I’m not complaining (heat helps bloom pretty cool things).

- for Poets and Storytellers United--Friday Writings #85: First Lines. The last poem was inspired by one of my favorite quotes, from The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield: “All children mythologize their birth. It is a universal trait. You want to know someone? Heart, mind and soul? Ask him to tell you about when he was born. What you get won’t be the truth: it will be a story. And nothing is more telling than a story.”