Saturday Morning Post ,Vol. 55


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 responses to “Saturday Morning Post ,Vol. 55”

  1. Wow!!! I LOVED this so much ❤️❤️

    Liked by 1 person

  2. This!! That last paragraph especially–ah. I have no words.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. SO BEAUTIFUL WHAT. Your prose is literally so gorgeous *heart-eyes*

    Liked by 1 person

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