Last night before I went to bed I sat out on my deck and listened to a pair of spring peepers. It was curious to hear just two peepers, as they usually are a full chorus. How rich and clear are their voices. Peeping is not the right word, it is more of a high chant, a velvet yet piercing trill, a fluted voice.
Wrapped in a thin sweater shawl, I felt the ethereal caress of the breathing night. The high whisper of the river was joined by the gurgling laugh of the small branch that runs by the north end of my house. I thought about the preciousness of water, the ancient song that is the Toe River, the blessing of living here.
Then I went to bed, and slept well.
The morning brings rain, and a Spring chill. I find myself quarreling internally, complaining about things which are, indeed, minor molehills. I suppose the problem I am seeing is that these minor molehills seem to consume my every breath.
I know this is my perspective, a drumbeat to which I keep dancing, and by all means a malleable beat. Sometimes it seems, though, that however malleable one’s perspective might be, the inner act of shifting one’s thoughts and feelings is no small feat. And when I feel stuck, incapable of producing change, well then, that’s when I ask for help.
St. Johns Wort, specifically, and a call for help from my spirit guides, and a vision of life being calmer. And then I jump into the day.
(After giving myself a little gift: http://www.etsy.com/view_transaction.php?transaction_id=15275222)