Even if you don’t believe there’s an inner…I ask you to read this.
“After a while the middle-aged person who lives in her head
begins to talk to her soul, the kid.”
–Anne Lamott, from the novel Joe Jones
Yesterday morning I awoke to perfection. My eyes fluttered lazily in the pre-dawn moments as a lilac-scented breeze shivered through the curtains and the wind chimes tinkled while a growing chorus of bluebirds and warblers, robins and wrens greeted the rising sun. I lay silently for a few, precious minutes, basking in the peaceful glory–but then my traitorous mind remembered the long list of chores awaiting my attack, and I stumbled grudgingly from my haven.
When I retired almost two years ago, I mistakenly thought all my days would be my own, to do with as I pleased. And while I do spend a disproportionate amount of time in my pajamas (which can be verified by the Fed Ex delivery man, the UPS man, the mail lady and the…
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Simply L.O.L.A. 