I’m in the throes of sorting, culling and packing in preparation for my big move into a little retirement village unit.

There’s been so much to do psychologically as well as physically, and I’ve been pacing myself carefully, making the most effective use of every morning’s scant energy.

Practicality has overtaken creativity for a short while; I made that choice some weeks ago, and it’s been working well for me. But part of being practical has been knowing that I cannot let my morning pages lapse: that precious half hour at the beginning of each day when I sit quietly with my purple pen and notebook, candle, pot of tea — and my innermost vulnerable self.

This morning, partway through writing about packing and boxes and phone calls to transfer services, I paused and looked up. And there, just beyond my lovely balcony, was the old jacaranda tree glowing at me out of the mist.

The writerly part of my soul ached to rest mindfully for a few moments with this beauty and I was compelled to let her express herself. How wonderful it felt!

vivid shimmery
jacaranda glow — soft mist
dissolves into sky


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