Cool enough to warrant a light blanket, I sit back on my rickety-battered-outdoor couch and begin my pages, next to a steaming, white porcelain bowl of green tea.
Dear God, I pray for wisdom and understanding. Writing, like I did yesterday, of men's hearts, I pray especially for the wisdom and understanding of those intricately wired, delicately balanced, nuanced, enigmas that are much more than the sum of our parts.
To an extent that I allowed it, mine is broken; I'm nursing the purple bruises and tenderness, my proneness (yesterday to sobbing) to weeping: I had put it out there believing.
I'm left foundering and wondering what changed, and why the wind's (gone with) direction altered?
I will not easily be trading mine again on the stony-cold, mortuary-like floor of the heart stock exchange.
But simultaneously I will not stop putting out my tendrils to where, often naively, I believe the nurturing sun and rain of growth and potential to be. I'm reminded of Bach's words of wisdom:
"Don't turn away from possible futures before you're certain you don't have anything to learn from them."
And so I again consciously move from
Doing to Being...into the space that Robin Sharma calls 'free flow':
"Free flow is a state of living where you have present moment awareness. Every cell within you is engaged in the moment you're living."