Feeling Combustible?

images-1

You know those times when you feel you need an exit plan but you don’t have a strategy?

You don’t want to be there.

You feel trapped.

Your insides feel combustible.

You could swim in the moisture made from your palms.

Your toes tap dance inside your shoes but the music’s not jubilant.

Can you change the music?

Can you imagine swimming in water blue and calm?

Can you find the key to unlock the cage?

No?

Then make one.

No one and nothing can trap you.

We are pixilated and all the dots that make us who we are can float through any barrier and collect themselves on the other side.

Digitalized or not, you are a great painting of yourself.

You can find your way back.

Just ask Alice.

Alice

 

FYI: Though pixelated is the standard spelling of the word meaning rendered with visible pixels, there’s a good reason that spell check does not catch pixilated. Pixilated is an old, seldom-used Americanism dating from the middle of the 19th century and peaking (in this use) in the middle 20th century. It meant (1) crazed, bewildered, or whimsical, or (2) intoxicated.1 

Pixilated derives from the noun pixie, denoting the mythical, mischievous creature.2 One who is pixilated is under the sway of a figurative pixie or behaving in a pixielike manner.

photo credit (ferret)

photo credit (man)

photo credit (woman)

photo credit (Alice) and pixilated by me.

 

 

via Strategy

Releasing Your Breath

Whenever you are stressed or can’t sleep, they say to concentrate on your breath.

anigif_sub-buzz-29207-1478274968-3

Laying under the covers, I closed my eyes and inhaled, exhaled, inhaled, exhaled. My mind wondered. “Concentrate,” I scolded myself.

In, out.

In, out.

In my mind’s eye, I saw my breath as I exhaled. It drifted to the mantle of my fireplace and peered down at me. I pretended to sleep.

It flitted around the mantle examining my wooden Pinocchio puppet, peered at pictures inside their frames and at my grandparent’s non-functional antique clock.

From there it floated to my bookshelves and I stirred when it became agitated. No doubt, it saw one of Stephen King’s books. That’s when it made its escape.

It seeped under my bedroom door and took a quick left to the piano but couldn’t muster up enough strength to press a key.

In the family room, it found my antique rocking chair where it settled into a back and forth, back and forth rhythm.

A back and forth, back and forth rhythm.

I’m not sure what other adventures it had. Nor do I know when it returned to me during the night.

I was asleep.

 

Great breathing techniques here.