Well With My Soul

There are a few places I've been that I return to knowing my soul will find 

HOME.

Home in the timeless sense, that connectedness with the spirits around me who have come before and will come after and BE part of the landscape.

The first time I went to Sand Dunes National Park & Preserve I was 3. I remember it. Even then, I felt like the sand. Shifting, moving, restless permanence. It's a paradox of the soul.

How thankful I am to be able to take my kids there with me, and let them thrive in the expanse with absolutely no agenda except the one they decide. 

When we left, Gracie said, "Bye Sand Dunes! We had really fun!"

Even she knows they are alive. 

Ode to the Overachiever

This is an ode to projects
I'll never get done,
the things I've started
for gifts or for fun.

I have good intentions.
Really, I do.
For remembering birthdays
and calling you.

And for excercise, dusting,
cooking from scratch,
for sewing on buttons
and patching those pants.

There are blankets to make
and cookies to bake
and cards to send
and outfits to mend.

Sometimes, I dream
that my windows and sills;
were polished beneath
fancy curtains with frills;

I'd certainly like
to have the laundry all pressed,
and the children scrubbed clean
and perfectly dressed.

I've an idea for that button
and red ball of twine;
that lens cap might come in handy sometime.

If there's something you need
there's a good chance its here
in the projects I'm planning to work on next year.

I've got such good ideas!
I'd be happy to share
but I know I'll be late to--
well, everywhere.

Before getting my work done,
between loads of laundry,
I just play with my kids
and solve their latest quandry.

I give kisses to toads
and pretend to love spiders,
make peace after fighting,
to make them politer.

So perhaps this ode
to projects only done in my head
is really to what matters most,
instead.

Fate's "Almost"

"Normal Day, let me be aware of the treasure you are.  
Let me learn from you, love you, bless you before you depart.
Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow."    - Mary Jean Iron

Today, we almost lost a colleague.

'Almost'

Had he not been sitting where he was, with whom he was, in the building where he was . . . . 

'Almost'

He--and the rest of us--are extremely lucky. Or at least greatly indebted to the tricks of fate that let him be who, when, where. GEEZ. My heart is still thumping. His almost stopped. 

'Almost'

Quantum theory describes a parallel for every 'almost'. In the simplest descriptions, it states that every time an outcome could've been different, a split in atomic time happens and that outcome DOES happen in parallel to what is actually experienced; and--in theory--the outcomes of a thousand downstream effects change in an instant. 

It's a curious theory, and one that seems to be able to be proven on an mathematic, atomic level, but not on a relational level. If you really feel ambitious, check out the definition on Wikipedia. There is enough blue hyperlink there to keep you busy for a very, very long time. (hint: Don't try it after a glass of wine. You will go cross-eyed. Trust me.)

Sometimes, it is the 'almost' that defines us more than what 'is'. The thought of what might be, or what could have been, galvanizes our focus to our purpose and priority in a way nothing else can. 

You've seen it in the tragic experiences of others, and you've thought it, a thousand times:

"What if . . . , What if . . . ."

There are a bazillion things that pull us from the edge of that quantum question back to actual experience, and reason, and logic, and commitment, and obligation, and . . . and . . .and  . . . and . . . 

Quantum theory has already spoken. You are already doing what your heart really wants, in some parallel. 

Listen to the "what if". Don't wait for that "rare and perfect tomorrow". The "what if" is the "almost" that is calling you back to your heart.