I haven't really been inclined to write here much since my mom died. And now, as I cozy up to this post, I am not sure where I am going with it.
As I walked up into the Boulder red rocks this morning, I was more certain. I was going to be poetic and smell the sun and taste the quiet applause of the leaves and feel the scent of the pine. I was going to do a chakra ascension thingy that aligned body to nature. I was going to speculate that the heart can open in a thousand ways and the mind can make a story around how fucking GREAT it is: whether it be the instantaneous love of a tiny dog or the shocking beauty of nature. I was going to write about Opinion as Religion.
And that was all before 11 a.m.
Then I met a lady because she had a couple of dogs on the trail and now that I am a dog person, we started chatting. Within the time it takes to pet a barking dog to silence, I learned that her place was damaged in the flood the week after her man left her for another woman. It had been a hard month. No, a hard year. No, actually, it had been a hard five years. That is what she said as we moved down the hillside together.
I realized I was lucky. Even in this year of my mother's death, and in the years prior where I was not sure where my next paycheck was coming from, I didn't feel like I was being tested or tortured.
So then I was thinking about writing about my parents and how they both gave me the gift of positivity. Neither are/were inclined to speak or dwell on the negative. Both are quietly thankful and helpful to others.
And then I ate and I shopped and I got blue gel nails that will not chip for several weeks. Plus I ate breakfast for lunch then got new lotion that smells nice. Soon Steph, whom I met in Cambodia, is coming from Denver to take me to a vegetarian restaurant for dinner.
Maybe I will write about that. Maybe I won't.
Maybe there are times that life is meant to be lived not interpreted. Maybe that time is now. Or maybe not.
