Right now I want to rue, rue the fact that everything is passing. The pink light from the sunrise casting its pastel color onto my writing page is measured. Each day is like those grains of sand in the hourglass, spilling. Now I have a new perspective of the hourglass, so different from those days in the past -- days when I was outer-driven, always reaching, always striving, always hoping to attain my ever-present goals.
With those days of racing behind me, my pace has changed, and my focus has gone inward, not in the sense of navel gazing, but of savoring moments, of being in my body instead of casting it about. And as I stop and look around me at patterns of sunlight illuminating the French doors to my deck, I see one shaped like a butterfly. And in the distance, a small crimson heart glows mid air, suspended in the leaves of the pepper tree. And I wonder how could that be -- a heart suspended in space -- what is that? And then, I see it's part of a stained glass strand dangling from the eaves of my deck and glinting in the slant light. And I realize, I am holding this journal to my chest, feeling the smooth tooth of its paper under the pads of my fingers and being with this day as it it were a person; as if it were a dear relative who I love.
