I meant to rant this morning. There's always plenty to get upended over. But I slept so well, so deeply, that I woke up quite peaceful in heart. Fog and mist surround the mountains. It's a gentle sort of day.
The book lays in front of me, saying, "Hey! Hey! I'm right here! Get back to work and finish me!" Maybe later. Today is a day for a headful of thoughts, the book being one of many things swirling around my mind. There is much going round my head. I'm grateful Strider doesn't demand a lot of attention because my mind's too full to speak much these days.
While here, I'm partly here. Part is in West B, wondering how my neighbors are coping in the trailer park that was decimated in the flood. They've gotten some help, but not nearly enough. Their struggles are all but silent; my hometown is more concerned with restoring businesses and planting flowers for the tourists than to care much for its poor people. I think of the few things I lost in the flood- the bed that two of my now-deceased brothers slept in; the rugs Seth gave me; the brave braided rug that went thru years of so much trampling, finally to die as it soaked up the muck and kept the rest of my belongings from ruin. My head visualizes what my little Hobbit house looks like now, empty, waiting.
Part of me is in Zuccotti Park with the Wall St Occupiers. Reading Susan's post about museums this morning gave me a sudden homesickness for NYC- something that rarely happens and is always rooted in the NYC I remember long ago, not the reality of today. And then I read Mark Ruffalo's piece about the Occupy movement:
And I think, it's not bad to be soft sometimes. In soft places, seeds can grow.
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