It all seems so simple while dancing in my kitchen to The Eleven. Create a virtual space for my ramblings on sowing and reaping liberty. The tending of my plot in The Commons, an action of accountability to my children and the seven generations to come.
As my body rocks a lemniscate curve to that amazing eleven-beat, I am flowing force in the realm of possibility. Sunlight comes in through my window and my socks slip and spin me across its patterns on the wooden floor. My arms, graceful hands, weave a similar pattern above. I am dreaming — without censor, without the bothersome constraints of form.
Here at the page, I am humbled. Words: clumsy vessels.
So today, I begin at the beginning, which I’m told is a very good place to start:
Today I showed up. Today I set my intention.
Tomorrow, I’ll show up again. Something will happen.