Wandering + other things I have no words for …

17 blank journal

Sunday mornings I glide from sleep into journal mode. Today I noticed a common thread {sharp and jagged}: this is the third consecutive week I have awaken with a sense of overwhelm + the need to drain {vomit} it via hand-written entries upon the pages of what has become My Sunday Journal.

It has become that by practice: once a week; a time of hand-written journaling — followed by a freestyle listing of dreams, ideas-to-execute, to-be’s and to-do’s. Continue reading

Begin here. {the practice of solitude}

Leaves of Grass

You air that serves me with breath to speak!
You objects that call from diffusion my meanings, and give them shape!
You light that wraps me and all things in delicate equable showers!
You paths worn in the irregular hollows by the roadsides!
I think you are latent with unseen existences—you are so dear to me.
Walt Whitman (1819–1892).  Leaves of Grass.  1900.
Song of the Open Road

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