Each day tumbles into the next without much demarcations. There is no more on-Mondays-I-do-this, and on-Tuesdays-I-go-here. Each day is generic. My weekly pill container tells me what day it is; my morning paper verifies. As I write, it is Sunday. No church. No Sunday brunch. We all miss the comings and goings of our lives….
Come sit with me. A spiritual bouquet awaits. I use lyrical imagery that blossom into meaningful insights, found in nature’s soft voice, floating in on gentle breezes.