Sometimes I know that I just have to leave things alone. To let them be, as they are, rather imperfect but the best I could do at the time. Some things are just work-a-day things, not great art, not something that will set the world alight but OK. They will do. Leave things alone. Leave life alone. I feel the workings of my habitual tension. Just a thought. And even when, like today the challenges that I daily impose on myself are lessened, my tendency towards stress soon fills the vacuum and then it is not about work but other, perhaps less important things. I feel and see it all. I see the ridiculousness of it but also I am aware of a dawning compassion. Why do you need to keep doing this? Is it just about fear?
She let me wear her perfume. How did it feel to smell like her? I think of them all, with love, sometimes awe and sometimes wonder. Such brave women. Am I one of them?