I have not written here for many months. Each day is a gift whether it be marked by pain or joy or lack of direction. It is my life. Now. It is what I make it. It always has been, and I did not always make good choices. When a choice turned out to be bad, I followed it through, found my way back to where I needed to be to be productive, to be loving, to be alive in the present.
I have come to the realization that for me there will be no afterlife; that I cannot accept the tenants of any organized religion. It is scary. I feel alone, but honest in no longer adhering to manmade doctrines that take me no where.
Meanwhile I reach out to those I love, and who love me although they are not always there at the moment. It is ok. We all have our distractions. Meanwhile I awake to the windblown curves of the two pinones visible through my glass doors, to the sun shining on patches of snow, and the cold wind that will cleanse my mind of cobwebs when I walk later with the dogs. My feet will feel rocks that have broken free with the hard freeze, and I can remove them from my path, and move on to see the first green of a weed that is not a weed, a plant with no name until it grows and lets itself be known to me. I remember the V's of wild geese flying as we drove home from Mesa yesterday, and I look for them only to find raven wheeling and playing, and I sprinkle bread crumbs over the fence for him.
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