Good morning.

I’m sitting in my car eating an early lunch, trying not to spill juice from my fruit cup (which was preceded by string cheese because I eat like a child).

4x12 | 4x18 GIF | Gfycat

Even though it’s not June 20st, it’s summer. I’m glad it’s summer. But a couple months ago I was having really mixed feelings about summer, because last summer was so sucky. I couldn’t bear a repeat of summer 2020, which felt like a string of days filled with heat and boredom. Just the thought of last summer made me feel like a wilted flower or a sack of potatoes rotting in a dark corner shoved in between the rice and lunch bags, growing eyes and getting squishy.

But it isn’t last summer, and if there’s anything I’ve learned from being a human being, it’s that no year is the same. And we have almost zero control of what a year will be, and that’s ok. Keeps us on our toes.

But I am determined to not be a wilted flower this year.


And the sun cuts through the rooftops and the trees, a white cold through the leaves all just opened. But  the sky is dark above and the setting sun shoots under the clouds as if through deep water or a burst of flame through a jewel. The wind rushes by with a warning, but no one can hear the words.


I gathered pinecones and twigs and gigantic leaves and threw them in basket. I wanted to make a garland, just like the ones I saw in the window of the boutique shop, the one mom never let me go inside. Of course I didn’t have any pink or blue or yellow pompoms or fringes or beads, but that was alright. I was making a woodland garland, and pretended I was getting decorations for the fairy queen’s ball.

*this is for a novel idea I might write for NaNoWriMo*


It rained today
it was sunny today
it was a bit of everything
just like stone soup
we all dreamed today
we all struggled today
I wonder how many of us
took a pause
to look at the sky
or trace a raindrop as it runs
down the window
I know I did not


I like looking out at something when I write. Looking out at the lake, looking out the window at home, looking out at a street from a coffeeshop patio.

It’s not about the chance to see something. It’s not about the chance of being inspired by a passing stranger or the shape of a cloud or the texture of the water.

It’s the ability to look out. That openness, that possibility when looking out at something. There’s room out there, a space to create, a space to fill, a space to explore.

5 thoughts on “Saturday Morning Post ,Vol. 55

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