Blue Jasmine is with me. You may not want to know the story so I won't reveal anything, but it is a story we know, and a story made new, and a story always with us. It is about delusion, pride, betrayal, and even amidst the pain, and maybe even insanity, love. What pushes us over the edge?
The fog is in this morning and the deck is wet. I sit by the window with Bella on my lap. She is a warm, vibrant, nosy pillow. I feel my feet on the ground, my seat in the chair, and my head open as a flower, scented. Pink jasmine is blooming, lovely delicate flowers of scent when the sun hits them and draws that scent out. Right now, all is still, at rest, no energy of the pull of that stronger light.
It is a time to ask: How does a person get lost?
How is it if we can't bring them back?
Is it to accept that we can't "save" everyone and maybe we don't even know what that means. Perhaps it is once again to honor tolerance and pass those we see thinking of trees.
There is a Mary Oliver poem, "Do the Trees Speak".
It ends with these three lines:
If you can hear the trees in their easy hours
of course you can also hear them, later,
crying out at the sawmill.