Today I awake exhausted, my mind in a fight with the past: I'm not at ease. Somewhere on the edge of the shelf beside my bed or under a pillow is Louise Hay's You Can Heal Your Life. I am not supposed to nurture thoughts of the past and future projections; positive affirmations and living in the present, leave no room for regret or shame. (Note to Ms. Hay: I know you're working your magic, in spite of this regression.) Were it so easy to tame beasts that have been my lifetime dream-whisperers, I wouldn't need a book; in fact, I wouldn't own numerous books that teach me, in one way or another, to live in gratitude.
In the background Christa Tippett's voice hums from the radio, drifts to my sleeping alcove. And with that I come alive, awaken to my fortunes, my umpteen gratitudes: the ability to lounge in bed on a lazy Sunday, my new (and long overdue) Netflix membership, my day ahead that involves an elliptical machine and a Netflix flick, and still later, a coffee with friends, and the list goes on.
|One of these days I will return to my watercolors.|