And why?
The ritual of it. For someone as leaf-buffeted-in-a-storm as I am it is a kind of an anchor to each morning from which to build a day. From the base of this warm, nourishing, and actually predictable part to a day I can then happily surrender to the wind-whipped vivid ephemerality of the day blustering me about. Robed in chaos the still centre remains safe, content with ritual's intangible mooring line that promises a new chance each day. Like Odysseus strapping himself to the mast to hear the Sirens' song I can take the wild, mad, unpredictable beauty of my existence. I can accept as Paul Klee says that "a single day is enough to make us a little larger or, another time, a little smaller" because I know that it will come again. The sun of the new morning rising up over the porridge bowl that welcomes the possibility of all that is or may be.
2 comments:
Jenn! You're back! Almost a year to the day since your last post.
Did you plan it this way or is it merely coincidence?
Moodster x
I guess there are cycles, not planned by me : )
sending you love London girl : )
xx
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