818 am. Self induced pressure, I need to get to working on the workshop. Today is my day off, and there is the internal urging to produce, to make something happen. This feeling is so familiar, and today I think I will pay close attention to the small voice. The up-hill journey on this cloudy day feels too big, I don’t feel equipped, it might rain. I don’t have an umbrella. I haven’t had my coffee yet, even the line leading to the barista is too much work. So here I sit, listening to milk having it’s molecules rearranged, pleasantries exchanged, “good morning”, “thank you”….. I love this song, reminds me of being 19, Under The Milkyway by The Church, “wish I knew what you were lookin’ for, might have known what you would find”, it’s still good. Not all of the music I listened to back then is still acceptable to my ears. There is only one person left in line and I’m thinking I might have a soy latte instead of just coffee with soy. Something creamier, is that what you want small voice? Yes, we’re going to yoga. You want yoga, I know. My eyes are still sharing their dismay at awakening. They burn, and I’m sure they are protesting by puffing themselves up, sharing with the world the abuse I inflict by rising before the rest of me is ready.
I woke up thinking of panda bears. panda bears only eat bamboo, apparently all that good luck has very little nutritional value. But bamboo is the bear’s only source of nutrition. Sometimes panda’s have more than one baby. The work of taking care of just one is so much that the panda must chose a single baby, abandoning the other. Bamboo creates very weak milk, and panda’s are on the brink of extiction. This makes me sad, I learned this on Planet Earth last night. I don’t get it. I don’t understand why god would only give the panda bamboo to eat, it’s not good luck to have to give up one of your babies because the diet god gave you can barely sustain one. Bamboo isn’t good luck for the Giant Panda. There is so much that doesn’t make sense. Why does Shannon call Ian Panda? Does it have anything to do with men of his kind also being on the brink of extinction? Poet, pianist, philosopher, mystic? I hope not.
I’m drinking a triple grande soy latte, warned that it may be a quadruple. Yikes. Vroom, vroom. I may get some work done after all.