Today I washed my floor in my silliest clothes. I packed wash cloths underneath my feet and danced throughout my apartment, jazzing to ‘70’s hits. I did this weird goofy bear crawl, making noises and deciding to be brave, strong, clean, bigger. It was that one small, dorky, weird act that flipped my day upside down. That’s usually the only thing I need: just one dorky thing. It didn’t, nor does it ever, register with me that this is a strange form of entertainment, especially if no one is around, but why should that matter. Why should my entertainment be for other people? Why does it matter that something completely dorky and entirely silly is something that makes me feel human?

When I was little I watched the movie the secret garden and really the only thing I can remember about it was that it made me so damn sad. I remember the boy that couldn’t walk, always living in the wheelchair, and finally getting to go to this special garden at the end. The flavor of the air I can still taste on my tongue. I don’t know what that means, why the aura of that movie enlightened so many of my senses, but for some reason it did, and yet I remember slim to none about the actual plot.

One of the safest places for me is being outside. Doesn’t really matter where, outside air is soothing for me. Reminds me I’m living. There was something about this movie, when I was young, that allowed me to feel that completely, while recognizing that I was so sad in it.

There’s something really wonderful about sunflowers and the way they turn their faces towards the sun. When they do, they completely unfold, welcoming light, allowing and creating more space for it to fill the cracks. When they’re not in the sun though, they’re still shining, turned inwards, but always shining.