. . . or is it simply the same day and the same hour with differences? Either way I'm grateful for this day and time. Children we've never seen before, out riding bikes and trespassing in another neighbor's driveway -- signs that life is back to normal for some in our community.
Hearing my friend, Myrna hollering and directing her household as usual is like listening to the same violin student practicing scales. It's life as usual. There's traffic and sirens, too many helicopters flying too low overhead to be anything but news choppers . . . New news both saddens and lifts our hearts at the same time. Others east and northeast of us are taking on water now. People from other states have come to our rescue. People we've helped during and in the aftermath of their disasters are paying it forward. I believe there are more good people in our world than not, and in spite of what Ann Coulter said about rather believing that God punished Houston for having elected a lesbian mayor than in climate change, I say to her, "I love you, Ann Coulter. And by the way, our district attorney is a lesbian too." Just as much Love and thanks go out to everyone who even gave us a thought or a prayer.
The light! I felt it even before it fully broke through the full cloak of grays and white. We finally see the sky! I left the blinds open because I wanted some of the sunlight to fall across my desk first thing; then I took a nap. I woke to warmth and light.
It's an awkward, backward, laying on its back L, but it's an L catching light. This is my one studio window. It faces the street but live oak is mostly all I see when I look out or down, unless there are doves sheltering or nesting. The sky blue always reminds me of Oiler blue. The Light always reminds me to hold on to Hope.
There are signs. and reminders. I suppose it's all about how you choose to look at things. I wonder if she lost her olive branch? I wonder how she died. Did she drown? JC and I put out food for them every day. She died with her eyes open. How she came to be in the driveway is a mystery, but I picked her put, wrapped her well . . . Life goes on.
A single partial postcard is better than no postcard. Some is better than none. With all the humidity around glue doesn't hold, ink pours like Morton salt . . . or is hemorrhage a better word? Pencils never fail. So I did pencily things. I thumbed through stacks of magazines, read articles, old letters written by a woman who's been gone for a little while. Some loving soul printed all the letters and sent them to friends, who sent them to other like-minded souls, who made them available to potential like-minders, and I received a friend's copies and had them copied at Kinko's.
Did I ever mention how I used to barter my talents for services to some who couldn't afford the talent of a graphic designer? No? Well, I did caricatures of a certain Kinko's manager's staff in exchange of a limited amount of free coping. She went south on me before I used all my credits because she swore I drew the nose she'd spent thousands on having redone, like I knew her or something. We never met.
I did it! I wrote out the storm!!! It just occurred to me. My goodness, I did it. There'll be mail going out as soon as a mail truck comes in. *grin*
Thank you. And be well.