Another wasted day, another wasted night. No one to hear this and attempt to appease.
I’m critical right now, and not just of myself. I closed myself off from the animals. I rang the brass bowl three times and carried the note each time, the last holding it close until I could no longer hear it, just feel the reverberations through the hollow place where other sensation is absent. I lit a smudge, breathed and blew, breathed and blew.
Some of the bite of my mood drifted out with each breath, across the bits of cedar, sweet grass and sage, their glow rising to claim all the current of my breath offered.
Diffuse, not concentrating. I was more relaxed, feeling the negativity permeated by the life my breath gave to the smoke.
I’m clawing at something. It is close; I am close and closing. It seems so simple and logical to keep turning the rocks aside, scraping the soil layer by layer. At age 40, I know what this niggling is. Stop only to listen, to retune direction. Keep digging.