*fyi- just a list of all the lil things… the details the frame*

Corralling letters into words,
Turned thoughts,
Turned written songs never spoken.
Tokens of love, The small unexpected ones. Gardens with gnomes and tiki torches,
Surrounding lived in homes.
Especially the ones with front porches,
That have seats so you can rest your feets. Wooden swings and rockers,
Made for rocking worries away.
Neighbors playing loud music,
Kids shrieking with glee
As parents jam out to those lyrics
The ones from the 90’s.
Kurt Cobain And Courtney Love, Hole
(She got dealt a tough hand).
My neighbors are jammin to nirvana as I type, the good stuff, invigorating the hype ;-)
Antiquated emojis from the olden days. Libraries in houses,
That smell of stale cigars.
Knowing I’m done fighting wars.
My body, my temple,
The self healing divinity
Within me. (You too).
The scars from those wars,
Cause they are the reminders
Of that which I don’t want to be.
Being better than I was before.
Imperfectly flawed, yet awed by it all.
Oreo cookies dunked in milk.
The smell of Versace perfume.
Patchouli, even more.
Outdoor music festivals,
The ones that last for days.
Waterfalls, the view from beneath,
above and Under too.
Being a mom.
Charlotte’s web, Matilda,
Horton hears a who, all things Dr. Suess.
The one who taught me when I was small,
That the possibilities, were endless.
He taught me I didn’t have to be a them,
I could just be a me.
Words that rhyme.
People doing their best.
Silly gifs make me laugh a lot,
More than they should.
Wisdom from the small ones.
They teach me so much,
Doesn’t feel like an equal exchange.
Here kiddo, I’ll teach you how to tie your shoelaces, then BaM, that little girl says
Something shockingly profound.
Cause she hasn’t yet been conditioned
To think in finite terms of definite and Probabilities and all that which she can’t be. People who sing,
Even when they shouldn’t.
Cowboy boots and thrift store shopping. Colorful leggings and long socks.
Full moons and constellations I don’t know. Camping out and sleeping in hammocks. Especially the ones built for two.
Or one big person and two little people. Hammocks, all of em, what can I say ?
Tire swings too, along with jungle gyms.
I like to climb, be up high.
Hunting four leaf clovers.
Old school, gas guzzlin range rovers.
Building things.
Taking things apart.
Seeing how they tick.
Digging in the dirt to find worms,
Catching fish, having someone else to take it off the hook.
My dad’s voice, forever in my head.
People like my dad, the one’s that are brave,
The one’s that give more than they take.
Seeing the world in color.
Sketching it in black and white.
My son and his 8 year old empathy
My daughter and her fiery wit,
She’s a firecracker.
Seeing life through the lense of others.
Those that call me out on my bullshit,
To my face, lovingly, but with the harshness
I need to hear.
Being able to see today that which I couldn’t see yesterday.
Knowing that even more will be revealed.
The surprises of what’s to come.
Making plans that I know won’t go as planned. Meow meow when she sleeps.
Dan when he laughs at my jokes.
Jasmine, when she laughs at me.
Reminds me that I’m not that big a deal.
The people put in my path,
Some are quick seasons, others are chapters,
A small hand few that have always been. Orchids and Venus fly traps,
All carnivorous plants.
Succulents too.
Stepping stones (literally and metaphorically). Memoirs of everyday people.
Philosophy and people who ask questions.
Dogs that take me for walks.
Volkswagen Beetle vans.
Scarabs.
Road-trips where you use paper maps.
And listen to music real loud.
Ryan Bingham, the singer, the poet.
Music that makes me dance.
Music that makes me cry.
feeling feelings. All of em.
Not having to numb out those feelings. Acceptance.
Being helpful, not hurtful

Juke boxes and old arcade games.
Forgetting everything I thought I knew. Skipping rocks barefoot with my dad. Palindromes and oxymorons.
Things that make me think.
Meditation to stop those thinks.
Being vulnerable, even if it means rejection Cause that’s where the truth is.
It’s none of the big stuff really,
It’s all the little stuff.
It’s the individual trees,
That make up the forest.
Pillow talks and long walks up mountains. Sour beer.
Perceptions that are not mine.
Things that open my eyes to see a new angle . There’s more but we’ve been here before.
This has gotten long and there’s a song
I gotta get to writing.
Places I gotta get going to.
Just needed to remember a big ole handful
Of all the good things.
Cause sometimes i start to forget…
Wait wait...
Rain boots and jumping in puddles
Cliff jumping
Weeping willows and oaks that are 300 years old
Making people smile
The Dalai Lama
And of course my momma
Ciao.

Meet Jane Doe