Interior

As I loaded my car with a bunch of crap from Target today, I had one of those bourgeois moments of despair. I'm not going to elaborate because it's been done before, and it bores me probably more than it would bore you. It had something to do with the plastic bottle of environmental clothes detergent and the California drought, the quandary of two decades of diaper wipes on Sophie's skin, a bag of French onion bread flavored potato chips. You know what I'm talking about, right? This blog is nothing but an endless conversation, isn't it? The other day, I had a long-distance healing from a famous healer. I have done these things on and off for a long time, and I believe in them to the extent that I believe my purchase of environmental detergent is going to make a dent in the ocean of sulfates that our species has been bathed. I open my heart to it as much as I do to the hope that the several hundred dollars I made recently doing a small project for a friend is going to tide me over until something else comes along. Dig a new hole and then fill it up. The healer was funny and sweet and had some incisive comments and advice. She said a bit of mumbo jumbo about gratitude and vibrations of abundance, but she also spoke about the word please and how it doesn't work in prayer. She said beautiful things about forgiveness and gave me an exercise to do that involves letters to those I need most to forgive. When you're in the emotional basement, she said, bring it to the ceiling. That makes me think of balloons, somehow, and the way they bob and float around a house for days.

Don't think about what you don't have. Think about what you desire.