Tonight, as I listen to the storm rage against the mountain and the forest and the trees in the street and this house, my heart is sore.
I wrote down my usual prayer for peace this afternoon, in my morning pages book, at Seattle Coffee, Cavendish. But it's the first time I prayed it this week.
Perhaps I've lost my way these last few days, allowing myself to be distracted from my path, the one I've chosen to tread, albeit a lonely one at times, on the road less travelled.
A peaceful path though, one of simple and minimalist contentment, joy.
Wind howls, thrashes itself against the roof, which are the walls of my attic home. So loud that at times I cannot hear myself think, causing me to clench my jaw and teeth, and to furrow-frown my brow.
Opening myself, and my heart, to strangers; tying up my soul in knots with theirs, and theirs.
Life of years has taught me to keep the door only slightly ajar, allowing a mere few through.
To pick and choose carefully.
To rather sit alone at the fire, with my cat on my lap, than with a crowd at the feast.
To bed early, to rise early, to give thanks on my knees before the sunrise.
To listen to the wisdom in the wind. To count my pulse, and to know that I am alive.