#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream

Something I am trying to see clearly has not yet taken shape. An insight is misted. I am in the mist of this unformed, shapeless idea. My life is growing longer and shorter. Too much of my life has been misted, unclaimed, lacking clarity of purpose and sensation. October is a misty, misted month. I want to be awake, aware, alive, attuned. I want to be present in my body, in the moment, in the mist and in the clearing. The October I turned thirteen, thirteen, I was astonished every day! a physical move, pull up your roots, unrooted, shaken free of all the familiarity and blindness of routine sharpens sight. Shake free, wake up, what is this October of turning 59? Oh, twelve turning thirteen, Oh, girl of the mists waking up in Newport, Maine, to love: falling in love, this is astonishing, how accidentally it happens, to choose and be chosen to discover a secret language, to know that you will never be the same after someone notices who you are and wants to know more and more, and wants to tell you, this is who I am please see me because I am who I am when I am with you and no other. Do not protect yourself - heave yourself into listening to the one who chooses to speak himself alive with you. There is a mirror. It is misted. Wipe the misted mirror with your fist, your palm, your whole five-fingered hand.