i am writing again and yet the page and pen are elusive friends that sometimes hide themselves and sometimes wait for my jaded eyes to open
how to adjust and re-adjust to the reality of the days I find myself in
how to hold both, all
both my accomplishments and growth, and my disappointments and failures, and all those decisions that cannot be undone
how to flow, to be willing to let go of anything at any moment for the sake of well being and balanced movement...how to transform patterns and presence
how to dance with sadness of an existential nature, that which has moved in me always, or at least as far back as i can remember
was it nurtured by my environment, or just exasperated by it? did i come in with this? something handed down to me to deal with?