I watched Java walk past me for the tenth time as I listened to the rhythmic sound of paw, toenail drag; paw, toenail drag. Then silence. Java stands, nose to the wall, staring. I wait for her to whisper “open sesame” and for the wall to comply and let her through. But soon the paw,…
I write, because I lose myself and the world around me when I don’t. It feels like creation. Like evidence that I’m still here and there is time.
How to keep the remarkable from turning routine or stale? That’s the question I attempt to answer as I study my dogs’ approach to life.
I’ve been trying to remember what it was like to be a kid — to remember what I played at and imagined and loved. I want to see if the things I started out loving provide clues to how to bring those playful feelings (free, light, uninhibited, unworried about outcome, adaptable, unrestricted) back into my way too serious life.
I’ve been obsessively writing for a few weeks. I’ve entered a secret world of words that I can get lost in for hours. Picture some kind of matrix scene where probes are attached to my head and I’m twitching and people are shaking me and yelling, “Maery! Maery! Wake up!”
It’s getting to that end of year time when we start to think about another year gone by. We wonder what next year will be like and what we want it to be like. What do we need to do or change to make next year better than this year? But I don’t know, 2015 was pretty good.
