Swaying My Way, Photo by BradensEye featuring dance_with_alia

Guzzling good sense runs the gamut of getting gritty with grappling. We’ve gotta decide what we wish our moves to accrue. I can climb a tree as a peering place, just to have a nook to be or to unleash myself bough to bough rollickingly free. Comprehension is unveiled within the participles of your direction. How we swing safeguards the very dangling we get up to doing. The personal development cult tells us that our inner work begets the boogie (or lack thereof) of our outer work. Why, then, are we constantly rocking our own boats? (And, I don’t mean in that seesaw — or shall I note a fav seasaw — sexual ceremony.) Digesting introspection involves having an appetite for influential instruction. Ergo, ordinarily exterminating any destruction. I’d rather us having only oscillation from mildly difficult to downright J.J. Goo times “dy-NO-mite! May we seek for engineering sway of our meh to marvelous.

Mind precedes all mental states. ~Buddha, Dhammapada

Sometimes the moon is telling me exactly how it’s going to be, but I’m ignoring it as the child impatiently asking to be in my arms when they’re old enough to walk and I’m counterfeiting my energy to carry them. That lunar leader noted its tidal nods, which began to signal the goodbye waves of a sunny date. We didn’t want to end this scene. Because it meant separating from friends, sitting in traffic for hours, and returning to each of our dissonant chores. Mommies and daddies had mouths to feed, laundry to churn, and baths for cleansing not relaxing to fit in. While my emails, taxes, or freelance career research took turns screaming at me. So, altogether, we stretched our limbs above, around, and out to sea. We agreed to seize the last bits of sweet salutation to steal for our later submission. When we want our world to run our way and not run us, we must buckle in a betterment of being.

Absorb what is useful, discard what is useless and add what is specifically your own. ~Bruce Lee

No sooner had I hung up the supportive phone call to pull my girlfriend out of a sudden rut than my By the Seaside ringtone jingled a calendar reminder to call my mother. For the latter half of my daughterly days, we’ve regularly traded optimistic phrases. Yet, today she caught me trying to erase the agility of my usual “all good” saying. I was cranky about the fact that by presently grounding myself away from LA, I was neglecting a storage-clearing ‘obligation’ I’d announced in summer. My crazy conclusions of feeling incomplete as a person fell in a hurry off of my tongue. I was coming undone. Posthaste, she didn’t waste any time closing in upon my double standard. She wagered my warehouse wasn’t going anywhere. It would wait for me. Besides, my jubilee sharing space sisterly. With disarming relief, my mom gifted me the reminder of breathing ease. Peacefully committed to follow through, we choose how everything can be.

I praise loudly; I blame softly. ~Queen Catherine II, aka Catherine the Great

It was an average gray morning, soggy around the britches. I dusted off the feathery down and cat fur with a sweep of my iPhone. Low and behold, his name stared back at me. Even though this strange email was untrained for my inbox, its owners tag read comparable to his biography with me. In a disjointed prattle, he appeared arisen from the (dis)connection archives of 2007. That fated year I wrote a ‘bcc’ Thanksgiving eulogy to family and friends who’d been by my horrendous side during two years of living hell. He was one of them I’d inserted with kindness, in spite of his defiance over my life choices (including therein, but not related to declining his marital intentions. He’d promptly replied to that transmission requesting I cease such communication. Now, here he seemed to be? Some might vibrate with this hastily. Instead, I’m gonna reinforce my historic homage. All hail a toast to burying bygones.

A good heart is better than all the heads in the world. ~Edward Bulwer-Lytton

The body is a machine of Matrix-esque marvels. At our technological core is the control room, the engine center, our heart sense. Discretionary eligibility of one’s thumper is the focus for optimizing facility. Given proper programming, our coding equals what I’ll call a botanical output ~ an applied science of personal expertise results in a botany of beautiful benevolence. If we allow our flux capacitors to spurt hurt we merely end with head-banging soreness. The most stunning shenanigans I’ve seen are the architecture of sweetly swayed human canvases. Our remedies are cradled in the cartilage of our casings. Greater sympathy for hearts computes to immeasurably sensational shifting. As classy as the conundrum of Bernadette, it’s our own plot line to devise, design, and execute our elation. When we will throngs of opportune tidings to congregate we may achieve dignity.

We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act but a habit. ~Will Durant

Right the twists ~ letting the twists right you!

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