I interrupted my morning writing routine when a pop-up ad drew my attention away from Dictionary.com.
Hemingwrite.

Clever name. What’s that about? A click opened an article describing an invention for writers that was being funded on Kickstarter. A word-processor without an internet browser, it looked like a flattened-out typewriter with a postcard-sized screen. What a godsend for people like me, easily seduced by online curiosities, tempted to peek at Facebook or open one more email. This might work. Just sit and type while it backs up my work to the cloud, and that’s good, because … well let’s see how much it costs.

The cursor blinked over the link to the Kickstarter campaign. I studied the donation levels, weighed my options, read the backstory of the invention.

I was well into stalking the people who’d already donated, when a cartoon lightning bolt zapped my head.
My eyeballs sproinged from their sockets.

A singed dreadlock plopped onto the keyboard.

Sigh.

Here I sit, consumed by a website about a device designed to prevent me from being consumed by websites.

Once again stuck on its treadmill, my frantic mind races toward solutions to problems it’s busy creating.
It’s not my job to find a solution to the problem of my distraction. My job is to notice I’m distracted and then observe how that feels. Nothing more.

Life works out. It always has. The details are above my pay grade.

While I’m reading, a sentence will grab me and force me to stop. I pay tribute to other authors by sharing their Damn Fine Sentences with you. Then I recount a memory the words bring up for me. It’s about how books connect with your life.

#####

“I believe that misery doesn’t need company as much as I believe misery is company.”
———Hanif Abduraquib
———There’s Always This Year

I missed my walk today.

My feet left the house, but I lingered inside my mind. Since the gas bill was extra high this month, was it a good idea to shop for a new bag (well, yes)? I still needed to replenish my supply of healthy food from the over-priced organic grocery store.

In my absence, maybe my feet admired the willow around the corner, relished the crunch of broken acorns, and reassured the hounds that bayed a warning from behind their fence.

My walk ended before I caught up.

It was a poopy few weeks leading up to the eclipse. I missed several of my self-imposed deadlines for completing Stumbling toward the Buddha, 10th Anniversary Edition, which caused a lot of moping. Friendships were in upheaval. I suddenly hated the movies I used to love. White privilege was in my face. My car stopped working.

Please resist the temptation to tell me things will get better. Please don’t point out the inherent beauty of my rotten month. Please don’t offer to clear my lower chakras of the energy blockage that is obstructing light-filled messages from my guardian angels.

I’m not one to make lemonade from lemons.

Silver linings clash with my complexion.

Rose-colored glasses obscure my view.

Dung beetles serve as my gurus.

They eat manure, fight over it, and build nurseries in it.

If they lose their way while rolling a dung ball down the road, they climb on top of it to navigate by the stars.

And they wear dung as as flip-flops to protect their tootsies from the baking savanna.

With 8,000 species of dung beetles, you’ve got to figure they know what they’re doing.

If life continues to pile on like steaming elephant poop, I’ll burrow right on in and make myself at home.