My Little Golden Book of Phobias

It's early. I have a conference today so I'll see my midwife friends. Felix the dog will go to his favorite dog sitting place and play with Miles and Bailey. After he comes home and he's tired, he goes upstairs and goes to bed. He lies on his back with his legs in the air.

The best part about the new Star Trek movie is Benedict Cumberbach. I think he's an evil character. No matter. 

I  haven't written here in almost a week. Too busy at work and spending time outdoors. We've had a streak of warmth and sun and gardening. Right now the early sun  has lit up the buildings downtown with pink. I can see a bit of skyline from my bedroom. 

Deb leaves for Hawaii next week with her son. He's taking her for mother's day, an imaginary holiday that happens this Sunday. Isn't mother's day something Madison Avenue dreamed up to sell flowers and greeting cards? When I had kids in the house, I thought every day was mother's day. It sure felt like it. 

Mothers. We all have one (or had one). I'm reading a book about the infant brain. No wonder I'm the way I am. Trust, intimacy, depression; all get wired so so early. I don't trust anyone. I told my therapist that and she asked if I trusted her. I said I did and she asked why. "Because you know better" was my response. No wonder I'm a midwife, so I can help families to care for their babies better. More wisely. 

A friend asked me to edit a piece of writing he's done on sex and magic and Christianity. Whew. My  inner English teacher printed it out and began slashing away before I stopped and asked him what his purpose was-publication or personal? I'm waiting to hear back. Rebecca is my model for skillful, firm and incisive critique. She made me think differently about writing, all writing. 

I could say a lot more about the art of critique but the day calls. 

May everyone be peaceful. May everyone be free.