Here, checking in again after several weeks of travels abroad, « vacating » away from usual connections, ideas, functions, positions. Here, preparing another departure, another week of « retreating, » the last of the summer.
One day and another day and another day and another, things as they are keep gushing forth. The breakfast table is filled with marvels, bread and butter and jam, peaches and tea! And the sink with dirty dishes. And the floor under my feet, too, with hardwood and carpet, the wall in front, with a spot here and there of unknown origin.
How the vine has grown each time I look again, flourishing deep green up the bricks.
It’s all quite simple and direct. I see it if I look. And tell it like it is without projection (or fear or aggression).