My spiritual director gave me this image: a mosaic is made of tiny little broken pieces and if you focus on them, you don't see the whole beautiful picture, which is made of tiny broken pieces.
I'm afraid to write. I'm afraid of what I'll find if I look inside, because I was so happy with a relationship built on sand and now I'm alone and getting back to myself but slowly.
But I'm starting a writing class on July 11, so I'd better get writing again, back into the groove. I don't know what to write, what to write...the garden at church is a beautiful place. I wrote a haiku there. I didn't spend time in the garden yesterday like I said I would.
Write write write. There are mosaics in Samantha Way in Highland Park. I saw them the last time I was at the Randalls in Pittsburgh. It hurts too much to remember, and remembering is what writing is. And I stink. I need a shower so badly.
I guess I'll take a shower.
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