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Periwinkle

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Ideally, right now I’d still be sleeping.  I’d be soaking in every ounce of rest I could get.

But I’m not.

Before I started this post the sky was a soft periwinkle.  The kind that baby blankets are made of and soft fuzzy slippers.

In the time it took me to grab my laptop and turn it on, the periwinkle disappeared.  It awakened into a sunrise.  Confidant, bold, and stocked with promise.  Dressed in goldenrod, peach, and hues of lavender.

Now if I was sleeping, I’d think that there was only this.  That the ever changing sunrise is all that mornings were about.

But instead, I cradled a cup of chamomile tea and discovered that the sky has a period of in-between.  That it rubs its eyes and makes its first stretch of the day.  That it opens its mouth and yawns to the heavens.  That its naked, like the rest of us, before it shuffles to put on its morning best.

These last almost  forty days, I’ve been spending my time in the periwinkle as much as I can.

Seeking out stillness.  Moments of in-between.  Time fully naked.

And what I found there was magic.

Not the kind sold at dollar stores or found in the movies.

But rather the magic we are born with before life pollutes our belief.  The kind of magic that can only be scribbled on a soft piece of linen.  The kind of magic I see in Phoenix every morning when he wakes.

So it’s silly to entertain the question “where do I go from here?”

Because like usual, I have not a clue.

I’m just committed to showing up again and again.
Honoring my own periwinkle–
As it turns itself into a million shades of blue.

Thank you for your patience, love, and support.
I believe my forty day retreat is over.

{I’m not sure it ever really began.}

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