Matilda had been saving daylight for years. Her pantry was filled with Mason jar after Mason jar full of the stuff; pickled, dried, jellied. But who was all this daylight for? Her own children had passed years ago. The grandkids had all grown up and moved on. Yet, still Matilda dutifully saved her daylight every year. Perhaps the ritual reminded her of better times. I happen to think she secretly hated daylight and was trying to lock it away — a vain attempt to preserve time itself.

to write a book. to make music. to paint. to poem. to point a camera at something at just the right time, with just the right & ready heart. to bottle little oceans. to catch a thimbleful of sky. to carve out canyons with an ice cream scoop. to banish the clock’s monotonous whir & dance, full of futures. to hold a swatch of eternity in yr hand, to feel it vibrating like a carpet made of ants—busy, bustling city unto itself so exuberant, riotous with dreaming.

Happy Winter Solstice!

I don't know who needs to hear this but you are important, you are loved, there is an opossum living in your attic which is why your socks keep going missing, you are valid & you matter.

Cry havoc and let slip the dachshunds of war