"A person should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful that God has implanted in the human soul." - Goethe
Poetry is white: it comes from the water covered with drops, it wrinkles and piles up, the skin of this planet must be stretched, the sea of its whiteness must be ironed, and the hands move and move, the holy surfaces are smoothed out, and that is how things are made: hands make the world each day, fire becomes one with steel, linen, canvas, and cotton arrive from the combat of the laundries, and out of light a dove is born: chastity returns from the foam.
A more relaxing day today, even at work. Things are very busy right now - the patient load has sky-rocketed over the past couple of weeks, and everyone's feeling the strain. We tend to get lazy when business is slow, and as soon as things get busy again it's hard to get back in the groove.
I'm a little tired, and can't wait to get home & change into my pj's and relax with my honey tonight. He's not been feeling well today, and I'm afraid I may have poisoned him last night with fishsticks....(yikes!) I'm no Betty Crocker and Martha Stewart doesn't inspire me in the least, so it's a wonderful thing that Scott has an iron stomach and never ever complains.
There's not a domestic bone in my body, not one. I stopped trying to live up to my own mother's standards a long time ago. My house has never been as clean or organized, nor can my culinary skills hold a candle to hers. And when I finally realized I was killing myself trying to live up to her expectations, I relaxed and was able to actually enjoy living in my house. Hers, on the other hand, looks barely inhabited. I let go of the guilt and accepted the fact that I yam who I yam, and wow! what a difference it's made. Nothing's in its place and some things don't even have places. I like it like that....
Meow!
