Words, images, clear, bubble gum
Reflecting often goes like this for me: My mind is sound, and full of sound. It hops around, a hundred jumping fleas, each making me itch, each carrying a word, a task, an idea. I shush the words. A picture of a still lake surface at dawn helps. Fog on the meadow. I tell the images, no thanks. If all goes well, I can float in the clear for a bit. I am again a nine year old, lying on the cool grass, watching the clouds, not caring about anything but the clouds morphing. Maybe I glimpse something significant. So shush the words, shush the images, find the clear. Then I remember that I do this for bubble gum: I look for what sticks us one to the other.
:- Doug.
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