Do NOT Knead

Happy St. Paddy's Day.  With two D's.  Los Angeles doesn't seem to know it is today. I didn't buy shamrocks or dafidills like my Mom taught me.  So I guess I haven't helped the situation.

In yoga this morning the only wearin' of the green was the girl's pedicure on the mat to my left.  Even I forgot to wear green.  My heart sank when I looked over at my sweatshirt I had already removed and dropped in a ball. Also to my left.  It was orange.  Sorry Great Nanny.  I have an orange sweatshirt, and orange car and a British last name.

In penance, I have an Irish Soda Bread in the oven, made like my Mom taught me.  I plan to lather it with butter and pray for peace in Ireland for the rest of the week.

Poetry

I used to write poetry. In journals, on masking tape. In high school. I enjoyed it. It had nothing to do with my career path or interests. It made me glad to reflect and compound my observations. Maybe I will do that here. Today, it is raining. It's peace and quiet has washed over me and I lay by a wood stove with three sleeping dogs. High up in the tree tops. June in Pennsylvania.