On this exquisite first real day of spring when my tulips are blooming brazenly, scandalously, lacking all shame in front of my house, I want to make sure that no one is concerned about my inner or outer welfare. (Some of you have written.) The last thing I want to do is use my blog as a cri de coeur, especially when I’m not feeling any need to cri.
Excuse the silly little dip into French, it’s the flowers everywhere. That is, my heart is not crying. (Well, yes, it does for the injured and dispossessed in our world.)
So, while I may feel unmoored and whirling from a voluntary process of stripping down to the essential me under decades of doing and being this, that, and most everything in-between, it is a process and goal that I have chosen. NOTE: the blog tag line “my fierce freedom.”
To those of you who have written to me, concerned, I say “I am happy, amazed, welcoming. Life is beyond our comprehension, and isn’t that the way it should be?” Living within one’s essential self of full feeling, of touching and being touched, whether at age 7 or 70, or 80, or more, that is the cry of our hearts.
May I suggest enlarging the photos and looking at them close up and personal?