A similar ping of intuition to the one that gave life to this cure-all blog: I recognise it. It must be followed. It makes not so much sense at first: to start a private blog that only I read. I have notebooks and a pen, I have always had notebooks.
What is wrong with my notebooks?
Apart from the lack of organisation?
Yet somehow it does feel… sensible? So yesterday, unbeknownst, a secret blog was duly initiated. Not so clandestine that I can't speak of it. It's more that I can't explain it. I'm building it as a small child constructs, artful and subconscious.
Meanwhile Dog is arching gracefully on the sofa. She appears adorable and wafts an eggy cloud. My Buddha-self says this is a lesson that one must not be too caught up in appearance for the substance may be rotten. My nose suggests a new lid for the Dog-raided compost bin. There is no discrepancy in following the spiritual and the practical advice.
There is washing on the line in the dark waiting for tomorrow's sun.
And words unfolding in secret cyber spaces. Chattery fledgling words.