I was walking, on my way home after a run, and noticed something. A bright orange piece of paper on the ground. My neighbor’s yard, across the street. Very near the sidewalk, so it appeared to be trash. It was Tuesday, which is garbage day for us. I picked it up. Examined it a bit. And decided I should keep it. Took it home. Read it thoroughly. It’s a letter. A handwritten letter. Though there is no signature, my take on it is a female writing to a male. There’s some confession. Some angst. Some regret. Some fear. Some love. I have no clue who wrote it. If she, if in fact the writer is a she, actually sent it. I never will know the circumstances completely, and as someone who cherishes the privacy of my own personal words recorded in journals and at times through the years, letters, I will not share the content in this public form.
At first glance I thought it was a kid’s homework. Orange notebook paper. Some English assignment draft. Not so, at least in my assumption. Someone’s heart shared a bit and after reading, I truly hope whoever the writer is finds some peace.

Yesterday. I did some work in my backyard. Nothing huge…just tearing out tomato plants. Moving some potted herbs and flowers, as fall is now upon us. I entered my basement. Cool, sometimes wet. A place to store holiday decorations and corn hole boards and tools. The flooring is cement, as I suppose is the norm in places of this nature. I glanced down and noticed. Oh, I’ve noticed before but never actually paid attention. Barely legible, someone has recorded in the concrete a date and initials. The date? Oct 7, 1935. Interesting. Because yesterday’s date was Oct 7, 2017. Also, interestingly, my dad’s birthday although he was born in 1939. Crazy, right? That I actually took the time to investigate on the actual date this was recorded? I’ve lived in my house for nearly seven years and never took the time. I tried to do a rubbing, like can be done on tombstones, but it didn’t work so well. I did take a photo, in which I realize it is not easy to make out the letters and numbers, so you’ll have to take my word on this entire situation.

I recently wrote in a previous entry my desire to be an explorer. Explorers discover things right? The crux of it is though, one might discover something disturbing. Example. While speaking to my mother on the phone, she shared a visit she received from some, let’s call them long lost cousins. They are working on family tree info, and wanted to meet up with her to share. In meeting with them, she heard their report of ancestors owning a plantation. Which disturbs me. And once all the names, dates, and other facts are passed onto me, I’ll most likely do my own investigating to find out more details. Yet. It’s difficult (that word seems trite) to reconcile in my mind. I already have documentation of a long dead family member owning a slave. Now perhaps an entire plantation? Please don’t tell me it’s not my fault. I wasn’t around in the 18th and 19th centuries. Obviously, no. Yet it’s still shared DNA. A part of me. Who I am. And it’s that discovery which brings contemplation.

Not all discovery is negative, though. I found a pair of $100 Talbot’s shoes for $13.50 yesterday. Yes, I bought them. I have a difficult time saying no to shoes. I recently tried a cauliflower pizza crust. Not so great, but you never know until you try.

I have, for most of my life, been against covers. As in music, not bedsheets. I require at least a sheet on when I sleep…Anyway, I’ve always been of the opinion the original is the best. When it comes to recorded songs. The original artist. Sure, hearing someone else perform a song might be fun or kinda interesting to hear their take on it. But. Let it be. I’m coming around though. And while I still feel pretty much the same, I’ve decided no idea is new so why not? Improvise and interpret? Sure, why not. I recently came across Ruby Amanfu. She’s the female voice in Jack White’s Love Interruption. A talented background singer. I’ve listened to her album Standing Still a few times as of late, and decided to share her rendition of Not Dark Yet. Yes, it’s a Bob Dylan. So please relax, music purists. Ruby does a lovely job with it, I believe. Good words. Reflection on a rainy Sunday.

Today.  Again today is Sunday and I have no plans to leave my house. No makeup. No forced schedule. Just me. It’s going to be a rainy day and despite the fact I generally prefer sunshine, I’m looking forward to the rain. The newness it brings. The change…the freshness to the air. The sound. Rhythms of water, bringing down the leaves.

I have discovered much about myself over the past year. When I reflect back to the previous October, I imagined myself in a different place today. Forecasted another, I don’t know what. Path? Journey? Situation? In many, many regards. Yet. Here I am. Somewhat different. Somewhat the same. Presently in the same place. Although not. There is much left to be explored and discovered. There is much to leave behind. But if nothing at all changes in a year, I suppose a person is fairly stagnant. And who wants to be that? I fight myself though, in that I want so much more and in that sense, I feel stagnant and stuck.

Sunday thoughts are often the harshest. My mind is free to roam to places which evoke questions. The outer corners which scream out. Telling myself to be fair. Good to myself. Unselfish yet self caring. I tell others not to be so hard on themselves. To enjoy the moment. To not fret. Yet. I deny myself at times. Sometimes only for the sake of discipline and the satisfaction of success. I realize all of the answers will not come today. Not this, specific, October Sunday. I’m not sure some of them ever actually will.

I’ll do some laundry. Clean out my fridge, which is currently strangely disgusting for a person who lives alone. Listen to Ruby again. Contemplate. Perhaps paint with watercolors. Not eat my usual Sunday donut because I’m not leaving my house and I realized I have gained a slight bit of weight as of late (nice rhyme, correct?) and need to abstain. Maybe organize my sweaters. Maybe not. Contemplate some more and who knows…. It IS a rainy day…

Shadows are falling and I been here all day
It’s too hot to sleep and time is running away
Feel like my soul has turned into steel
I’ve still got the scars that the sun didn’t let me heal

There’s not even room enough to be anywhere
It’s not dark yet, but it’s getting there
Well my sense of humanity is going down the drain
Behind every beautiful thing, there’s been some kind of pain

She wrote me a letter and she wrote it so kind
She put down in writin’ what was in her mind
I just don’t see why I should even care
It’s not dark yet, but it’s getting there

Well I been to London and I been to gay Paree
I followed the river and I got to the sea
I’ve been down to the bottom of a whirlpool of lies
I ain’t lookin’ for nothin’ in anyone’s eyes

Sometimes my burden is more than I can bear
It’s not dark yet, but it’s getting there

I was born here and I’ll die here, against my will
I know it looks like I’m movin’ but I’m standin’ still

Every nerve in my body is so naked and numb
I can’t even remember what it was I came here to get away from
Don’t even hear the murmur of a prayer
It’s not dark yet, but it’s getting there

Bob Dylan

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