They say feelings aren’t facts. I don’t know about that. The way I feel looking at clouds some days feels as real as 9 x 9 is 81. Maybe you feel that way. For me, the first bird-song of the morning. Learning how to cook all over again for maybe the first time. Pelicans.
I’m on an early morning walk yesterday, out on Hancock, back on Schuyler, and I get the feeling that finding, applying for, interviewing for, and being offered a job with a time sheet and a boss and probably lots of requirements is just about gone in my life. This 77-year old, gypsy, flying out of a basement in NE Portland to chase wonder and grace and all that great stuff life. Late last night I received word letting me know I would not be hired by the Waverly Heights church. There is now nothing pending.
Call it my stubborn-ness (I prefer “To thine own self be true”) of what I will and won’t agree to; maybe it’s about my birth certificate; possibly employers don’t get all the wicked cool-ness and hip-ness right there in and on my resume – who can say?
Which, say this feeling is in fact a fact, then it’s become imagining far outside the box time for your devoted blogger, because I am on a wild, rather urgent mission to rescue my 19 boxes of books, CD’s, and more important stuff, and about 25 loose paintings from an ‘I’ve got to pay for it’ storage unit in Idaho and get those goodies down here. Where they belong.
Nibbles of ideas….
If the creek don’t rise and I’m still waking up to each day’s sunlight, perhaps next week I can come here and be a bubble – all rainbowy in the sun – and float some possibly interesting thoughts about a way to pay for that rescue without a payday.
from a mountain bench 
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