Heatwave happening all across Cali this week (ahem, who knows about the rest of the country, of course, because West coasters are so centric.) and we're sweatin'. I cannot complain, because we are close enough to the beach (like, three or four miles) to keep those lovely breezes flowing, and a dampness in the air at night that aids sleep and dreams and ah. Looks like Marin is about 10 degrees higher than we are down here; that is a bit of a trip.

Dinner tonight consisted of a whole fruit strawberry popsicle, three veggie sausages and a glass of cool, crisp, white wine. This, my friend, is the beauty of being an adult. And, I could have eaten it all in bed, had I wanted to. I love that.

Been watching the birds nest outside the office window this past week. The couples (scrub jays and blackbirds, thus far) wander across the lawn, pulling up their supplies, and discussing the viability of each item. They check out the flowers and the dirt, sometimes picking up a pebble or a bug and transferring it to their partner's beak. Very endearing. I could watch them for hours. I've put up a house, hoping they might take me up on the hospitality. Most likely, they'll ignore it, but I can hope.

Their activity makes me think of my own nesting, and what a practice in sanity it is for me. The chaos of the last few months (good god, half a year) has been so breaking, so wrenching, that I crave the simplicity of just nesting. Yet I can see we have come along, and the various forays have borne fruit--for the most part, the house feels like home--and the garden is a delicious canvas, waiting for paint.

But I study the birds' imperative, and it mirrors mine: must build. Must choose carefully. Must make just so. And since I am *not a bird (last I checked, and despite what one might call me in say, England), I assess my drive and discomfort at having an incompletely feathered nest and the fallout from that.

Depression. Perceived inability to do anything to make it better. Lethargy. Melancholy. Protection and diving inward. And the story goes on and on.

The other voice says, "This is how life is; buck up!"

I think perhaps both stories I am reading are not true. Perhaps both are just ones that I'm comfortable with. One a coping mechanism or chemical depletion, one from childhood teachings. Who knows? As Jer says, "both can be true." And, perforce, both can be false. Maybe all these things I think I feel are a lie, but it is a story that I know.

I began reading a book tonight from a dear friend, William. In "When Things Fall Apart" I found this:

When things are shaky and nothing is working, we might realize that we are on the verge of something. We might realize that this is a very vulnerable and tender place, and that tenderness can go either way. We can shut down and feel resentful or we can touch on that throbbing quality. There is definitely something tender and throbbing about groundlessness.

That is what I am sayin'. What I don't know is, how does one strike the balance between poking around in that groundlessness and finding your own truth, and not going overboard into a navel-gazing mire of self-pity? How do you sit and accept transition, intangible but real pain, and not try to explain it away or put a bandaid on it?

Practice?

Another couple of quotes from the book, glommed together, that bring me some sense of direction and...okayness:

Life is a good teacher and a good friend. Things are always in transition, if we could only realize it... Sticking with that uncertainty, getting the knack of relaxing in the midst of chaos, learning not to panic, this is the spiritual path.

So, I'll read more. I'll hope for continued inspiration. I'll continue to nest while paying attention to that attachment. And I'll watch the birds and the seasons change outside my office windows. Perhaps in the quiet, a little magick will become apparent.