My Writing. My World.
Sunday mornings are for coffee and daydreams.
The kind that have me wondering about slow love.
Knowing glances over our steaming mugs,
Me baking scones for you, and you feeding me a bite of your bacon…
I wonder what you will look like,
Although that’s never mattered much to me.
I care so much more about what your soul feels like,
And how connected we are…beyond the day-to-day activities.
A friend of mine admitted to me recently that he had judged me when I told him I was having anxiety about reintegrating back into society after the pandemic.
For saying that I felt almost feral and perhaps even a little agoraphobic — and not at all sure how I was going to prepare myself for leaving my house on a regular basis again.
She took one hesitant step,
And then one more…
Wishing she felt more sure of the path before her,
But trusting her heart to show her the way.
It had not led her astray so far.
But never her own.
Anyone else wake up with an emotional hangover this morning?
And maybe a weird pain in your left eye that you can’t quite figure out?
I felt like I was in a fog for the second half of the day yesterday — my morning’s work woes quickly forgotten in their irrelevance and sudden unimportance in light of what was going on in our country.
