Some days, I write the words that spill out of me or swirl around me. Or the words that dangle right in front of me, as clear and bright as raindrops, suspended from the bare branches of trees like tiny mirrors held up to all that naked beauty. Other days, my senses feel clouded, and my mind is a freight train, spewing exhaust and hauling nothing good but chugging at full speed all the same. On those days, I write the words that I need to hear. Today, I am writing the words that I need to hear.
This is just (sniff) beautiful. Thank you for your generosity to put experience into words that paint vivid pictures, and then to share them with us. I am richer for the reading and inspired to notice further.
The words you needed to hear were a balm for this reader as well. The imagery of the oak leaf bowl and the noticing of small things that have a surprisingly deep and soulful impact reminded me of the Japanese concept of mono no aware. I love such things. Some of the little things that have saved me lately (some of which I've mentioned to you recently): the unexpectedly warm and gracious phlebotomist I was paired with at the lab; two squishy dollops of bright orange gel fungus nestled in equally bright green moss on yes, a gray day; and learning that oceans can be flatulent. So grateful when these glimmers make it through the internal fog.
This is just (sniff) beautiful. Thank you for your generosity to put experience into words that paint vivid pictures, and then to share them with us. I am richer for the reading and inspired to notice further.
The words you needed to hear were a balm for this reader as well. The imagery of the oak leaf bowl and the noticing of small things that have a surprisingly deep and soulful impact reminded me of the Japanese concept of mono no aware. I love such things. Some of the little things that have saved me lately (some of which I've mentioned to you recently): the unexpectedly warm and gracious phlebotomist I was paired with at the lab; two squishy dollops of bright orange gel fungus nestled in equally bright green moss on yes, a gray day; and learning that oceans can be flatulent. So grateful when these glimmers make it through the internal fog.
"It has always been the small things that save me." Oh, Lisa. Wiping the tears away after that line.