I am not old.. she said I am rare. I am the standing ovation At the end of the play. I am the retrospective Of my life as art I am the hours Connected like dots Into good sense I am the fullness Of existing. You think I am waiting to die.. But I am waiting to be found I am a treasure. I am a map. And these wrinkles are
Imprints of my journey Ask me anything. ~ Samantha Reynolds
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I take the seashell from my jeans pocket and rub my fingers across its silken, indented surface, shallow as my own open hand. This chalice, subtly shaped by some divine intelligence to allow water to flow in and out with ease, is what I aspire to become: a vessel through which feelings can pour in and spill right out again, without all the grasping and holding that obstructs the flow. "Can I be as serene and simple as this bleached shell, rubbed smooth by wind and water, receiving and releasing, filling and emptying and filling again, eternally receptive to the currents of life?"
- Katrina Kenison, The Gift of an ordinary day |
glenys mannNotes that catch my thoughts, dribbles, splashes, spills, drips, words, and other detritus, as I work my way thru journals and blogs that have kept me occupied during an unusual time in all of our lives... Archives
November 2024
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