It's like reading The Jabberwocky, only no fun at all - a highly technical book with lots of (to me it seems) made-up words. I go galumphing through the text in search of mental toeholds.
Many parched hours, punched-through with doubt. A reminder that I'm weaker than I hope to be.
Pale green comforter. Pale blue pillow. Crawling under, curling up, hoping that a restful sleep will come.
On the sidewalk, leaves scrape and tumble across the flickering shadows of the leaves that hang overhead.
In one building, the people I encounter include a chef, several cadets, a guy who bangs out Gershwin in a room by himself, another who's happy I'm his guide for a half hour, and a girl who's polite and faintly homesick.
It's a mild afternoon, full of warm sunshine and a breeze that feels benevolent. Every bench I walk by beckons me to sit for a while. I wish I could; instead I'm headed to a place where computers glare, copy machines whir, and a smell of stale ink hangs over everything.
Little kindnesses ring true and ripple out into the world - a smile, a door that's held open, a sincere compliment that isn't held back, a word of encouragement or love. These seem like small things but they're not; they spread from one life to another to another. They restore, repair and heal.