Printed in 1935

Quote

Last week I was sidetracked by a good cause. Rescuing old books from an uncertain future is a precarious habit given the current state of my bookshelves. There is something about a book, the feel of the pages, the slight imprint of the words, the smell, the binding that all converge into a prized possession even without me having read a word.

 

The Intent is what matters, not perfection.

Sounds easy, doesn’t it? The Universe keeps sending me this sound bite and today I found myself writing it to another but the message was equally (if not more so) meant for me. I am a perfectionist. If I were to give thought to the reason why it boils down to a simple sauce of belief and a need to finish with the gold star firmly planted on my chest. Perfection to me is equated with the words: a polished finish. One cannot reproduce a higher standard and really who wouldn’t like that? Yet my need for coloring inside the lines and having that perfectly straight handheld scissor cut are rooted in a dislike of chaos. (Ironic and fitting considering much of my life has Continue Reading →

Seaside thoughts

The sea gave and it took away, pushing inland, receding, wave after wave. I’d have gone with it if I could. Perhaps numbed myself in the eternity of such a gentle lull but I knew it would not last. Breathing in, breathing out even this I cannot control. How my heart aches. I feel so damn old, ground to fine dusted bone stretched in skin. Life keeps pressing in. And with it the waves roll, in then out as sand grips my feet, sucking them into place as if this encasing to the land will soothe my soul while the waves crash about. The ancient rhythm I hear is the pounding of earth and sea. It seeks solace somewhere deep inside of me. White crested Continue Reading →