What is left.



This painting is by my brother-in-law Justin McGonigle, find him online, the crookedness of the photo is mine, not his.

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I've been going back a year past to read the posts I've written. It is now and has always been a bit strange, as it makes time as lippitylappityloopy, those things which feel like yesterday and those things for which I have no memoryspace at all. But I still like it. Perhaps its a ticket to a realistic self-view, if I like my own writing, then maybe I should be more generous with myself when that scratchyinner voice starts speaking, you know... 'oh, your shyness really makes you a loser.... your belly is really out of control...he just wants something from you... you're still not a popular girl... people think you are so aloof and snooty...  your breasts are hitting your belly, you know, you HAVE to wear a bra now because you are OLD. . . ' you know...

if you face that voice down for the mean liar that it is...and give yourself a break, let yourself off the hook... what is left?

 quietude? satisfaction? exhilaration? joy? calm? certitude? motion? acceptance? divinity? firmament of heaven? inner lights and sparkles? buddhism? quakerism? peacefulness?    lets try.

'tis the season.