Happiness 8-16
learning how to fly; tea and oranges; the bridge being lowered over the moat.
learning how to fly; tea and oranges; the bridge being lowered over the moat.
writing with a fountain pen on handmade paper; the silence of longing; setting off on an adventure.
raising the barn; a gift of turquoise; standing up for an ideal.
a spiral staircase to the top; the spirit of kindness; an Etruscan vase unearthed.
Becoming aware of the soul of color can help you weave a pattern of balance and simplicity into your busy life.
charming feet and toes; encountering a dryad during the walk; completing the task.
a hot summer evening in the town; finding a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow; visiting a friend on Faroe Island.
the shimmer of poplar leaves; meeting fingertips in acknowledgment; being told a story.
an empty shelf, gleaming; buying a new house; the new moon in Leo.
kissing in the hayloft; flying first class; the oldest book in the world.
the sweetness of shade; realizing the truth; meeting a troll under the bridge.
climbing to the pinnacle and looking down; fairy-tales; fragrance of casablanca lilies.
a room with only a vase of flowers in it; standing up for truth; being invited to Paris for a long weekend.
As a writer, you may be hardly aware of the rhythm and sounds that emerge in your writing – but for any good writer it’s instinctual. In this writing practice, make it conscious.
catching the bouquet; mesmerized by the violinist; the feel of silk stockings.
sleeping in the apple orchard; the best feeling in the world; Borobudur.
deciphering the code; the path through the woods at dusk; strength of mind.
the House of Wonders; listening to an inner voice; a goddess floating towards you on a scallop shell.
docking after the storm; the pleasure of a surprise gift; a house designed like a spider’s web.
There’s an island off the coast that
I never went to.
I think there’s a blue grotto there –
we’ve all heard about it –
where wild women, their hips swaying as they work,
sing, and sigh.
Where the guitar-players with manly chins
stubbled and dark,
and strong white teeth
laugh, and stroke
the familiar cat that passes by.
There’s the sound of children playing
in the swell of the waves.
We follow the cobblestone road
under a sky that’s heartbreaking blue
to the yellow house with the peeling paint
on the edge of a beach that’s smooth as a pearl.
But none of this matters.
All I want is to be with you.
The island fades; the city is razed
in my heart
and the huge flowers wilt
like longing that flees
before the day.
flying there on a magic carpet; overcoming fear; healing the sacred island of Moloka’i.
the guitar players on the stoop of the house in Naples; listening to the ocean in a shell; following your longing.