every season glistens with ingenuity, you have to interlock with the elements and become a raindrop, a storm cloud or maybe a glittering star. to indulge in noël and pick fruit in the summer and be swallowed by scarves in l'hiver, it is better to marvel than moan. i can see that we are made from compassion and clay, with the blessed opportunity to become whoever we would love to be. while i haven't yet decided if happiness is a conscience decision, i can see that if i whisper to myself a regular reminder to breathe, that it isn't so hard to keep the ghosts in a land far far away. in saying that, i think it is important to evoke constant memoires of how lucky we are -- or how lucky i am -- to have the reasoning to remodel and reinvent. i am petrified of waking up one morning with my being trapped in a space - real or fantastical - with no escape. we have to keep moving, we have to keep loving.
next year will be easy-lucky-free, with live music and sunseeking and taking the lonely our of loneliness. there is some kind of sophistication in solitude, but i'm still figuring out how. all the teas -- chari-tea, humili-tea, integri-tea, reali-tea --, and me against the monde. nothing is as imperfect as you can imagine it.
x
