Therapeutic Misadventures

There is a place where we can all go that allows for the silencing of the noise of ordinary life. A place where we each find a solitary pursuit of a moment; a goal, a dream fulfilled. I love the mornings because I wander and drink in every bit of new color, every drop of dew that heralds a new flower.

Writing is a solitary pursuit. How many times a day, when you are cooking, cleaning, dealing with the minutia,  those around you in all good faith say, « What can I do to help you? » and usually it is something as simple as  « OK thanks, chop this, hold this, move that, » or whatever. Some pursuits, no one can help you with. When I sit down to write, no one else can lend a hand. There is nothing any other being  can possibly add to my experience. It has to be…

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