I am writing, writing, writing. Lists and questions and rambling scribbles. Which sounds rather friendly, don’t you think, rambling scribbles? I like the sound of that, the freedom implied—at least to my ears, my eyes, my heart. The freedom to carry on as long, or as short, as I like. To write with abandon, messy or neat, little or big, insightful or dull. To write for the sake of writing feels good.
I am not making photographs, have not been with any regularity for a while now. I don’t know what to make of this, the not making in this realm. It’s odd to not do something that I know offers me pleasure and clarity and expression. But there it is, the not doing.
There is snow on the ground, still, and this makes me happy. Below freezing temperatures for days on end. Though the sun shines brightly, patches of snow do not melt. It stays, it sticks, it settles.
I order new washi tape in colors atypical for me. Pinks, soft blues, touches of gold. Pretty, ridiculously pretty. Instead of using only the tapes left over from the teen journaling class I taught two years ago, I have treated myself to something new, something lovely, something just for me.
I sit with questions, which is nothing new, really. These questions are companions, if I let them be. Can I let them be lovely, like the washi tape? Can I let them settle inside me, not melt in the brightness of life? Can I let these questions do nothing but make their presence known, nothing more, nothing less, no answers responses solutions? Can I see how ridiculously lovely a practice this might be?
Faith is a state of openness or trust.
~ Alan Watts ~