writing my second book has been opening my notes app every 45-minutes—ideas knocking on my brain womb door, “let me in”—*quick*—little tiny piece by little tiny piece—is how i prefer to receive information, universe teaching me about myself—this substack practice has been the conveyor belt for my next book—i do not just sit down and write a book—idea babies visit me softly quacking “can i hatch here”?
all things in motion at universe’s whim—hands off witnessing is an awe i hold dear. i drove to home depot for succulents—a large brutalist basin rests center of my dining room table. a former partner planted succulents last year though withered to change—collecting new life felt exactly right. as i pulled into the parking lot, charlie began barking anticipating my launch from the vehicle while he remained. i wedged into a spot near a group of men. anxiety dialogued, baby dog expressed frustration, and i waltzed into the store with the kind thought—*i’d take my time and Charlie would self-soothe*.
i’m rolling my cart outward bound as thickened, fleshy, engorged plants wiggle from their containers in the cart—rain offering a bath. tinkering how to get my primordial plants home damage free, universe approaches in man form with a battered black crate—”put them here” he says under his teeth. Billy was friendly—called me pretty in a way that felt safe and did not expect anything in return for the universe’s use of him. i giggle over unicorn’s humming engine—over sacred alignment of all things shifting just so to fall in place. this is where i am right now—awake to the universe’s divine mystery—i simply revel.