Sometimes there’s dark in the light

I can slow down. I can miss my friends who aren’t here. I can notice how slippery it feels to let go of control of handling my mother’s care. I can accept that things are changing swiftly enough. I can breathe.

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What does the work want?

“What does the work want?” I have to admit, often, I would rather answer to the work than answer to myself. 

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