Among the delights of this or that, is the life, the world we have, the world around us. Easily, I could ride a horse, claim a truth, make the world bend my way.
But ( here a “but,” a conjunction, a connector that turns a direction other), I only want to tell that my garden grows, the forest vibrates around me, never mine though is in my name, and sings the song of wind in trees and birds. This evening, this setting sun, this day (among all the few days we in the end have) is passing into another beautiful wonder, tomorrow.
We might fight, like the jay bird that follows me to the garden each morning coughing his song for me. I know, no matter the harsh voice, that he is happy to jump up and down on the branch as he talks to me, knowing “the branch will not break.”
I hope sometimes, we can all listen to these songs of the other.
Happy this day, another day we feel our own heart alive.
First diary, so excuse any missteps.