I'm reading Danielle LaPorte's Fire Starter Sessions. I keep coming back to this idea of generating the feelings you want being the most creative thing you can do with your life. Everything that I do or do not do, or want to do or do not want to do, is about how I want to feel, in my body, in my mind, in my soul. What would life be like if I focused on creating the feelings I wanted to feel? It gets right to the point of it all i think. This weekend I wanted to feel like the woman who paints her toenails teal and now I do.
I'll be camping in the Redwoods and on the beach in California for nearly two weeks later this month. I'll need to bind a new journal for the trip. Wondering what form it will take. With a cover or without? Big or small? Pre-painted or not? Delicious decisions! The planning is one of my favorite parts. That and you know, actually vacating. This sweet little number was made in a Misty Mawn class at the last Artfest.
Sleeping in the Forest
by Mary Oliver
I thought the earth remembered me, she took me back so tenderly, arranging her dark skirts, her pockets full of lichens and seeds. I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed, nothing between me and the white fire of the stars but my thoughts, and they floated light as moths among the branches of the perfect trees. All night I heard the small kingdoms breathing around me, the insects, and the birds who do their work in the darkness. All night I rose and fell, as if in water, grappling with a luminous doom. By morning I had vanished at least a dozen times into something better.
It’s morning, and again I am that lucky person who is in it.
And again it is spring,
and there are the apple trees,
and the hummingbird in its branches.
On the green wheel of his wings
he hurries from blossom to blossom,
which is his work, that he might live.
He is a gatherer of the fine honey of promise,
and truly I go in envy
of the ruby fire at his throat,
and his accurate, quick tongue,
and his single-mindedness.
Meanwhile the knives of ambition are stirring
down there in the darkness behind my eyes,
and I should go inside now to my desk and my pages.
But still I stand under the trees, happy and desolate,
wanting for myself such a satisfying coat
and brilliant work.