It is Tuesday, gone to rust, moth dust on the tips of your fingers. Inevitable, irreversible decay. The weight of the mess. Speechless. 

Out in the green the dogs are pestering some small creature, a box turtle come in under the fence. Her voice is all needle and joy. The turtle's nose is muddy. He stands golden as a creek bed, patient as a shell.

I am glad of the ability to be here, watching. Glad of the turtle's amber eye, the dog's ecstasy, the glowing green. Glad of the apple and its almond butter. Sunshine bright turmeric lemonade waiting.

It comes down to this: there are 10 thousand ways to clog your gears. When you stop working, the mechanics of your ways, the answer is always simple. Let your attention flow through yourself, stay with whatever it catches on. Let the waves of your compassionate attention lap and lap over any clutch and tear, any grind and pinch, jangle and void. There is nothing to solve. Just stay. Attend. This is it. Just this. Attend.

It is Tuesday. There is a fog in my brain. I am heartsore.