My friend talks about vapors that we accidentally stumble into. She says it’s like a gray fog in a room filled with what was once there, or she says it could be a memory you weren’t even a part of, the creeps and coils into your arms until your bones ache like arthritis, and all you can do is blame yourself for getting lost.
The wind blew mean through our ears last week and he said it so kind that we couldn’t let it blow our aura’s off
A cowboy gave me Patti Smith’s book and I lit a candle for the week. For all them days.
I listen to a book while I chop basil that tells of the four Buddhist immeasurables.
“There are four good things worth practicing. Being kind toward everything alive. Staying level and steady. Feeling happy for any creature anywhere that is happy. And remembering that any suffering is also yours.”
The moon is a brightness this week against the winter blue of an early sunset and I have decided to take up running again
I haul my body above the still mountain fog and the air is so damn cold like
stumbling into a good memory
and maybe it could all just be a mantra for keeping your aura on tight
Jillian Prendergast. Writer. 