There are all sorts of things I'm supposed to be doing today. I have a to-do list that extends the full length of the page of my sketchbook/journal.

But today...I feel

as delicate as a robin's egg

as fragile as a dragonfly's wing

like the incomparably blue petals of the chicory flowers that I picked, not knowing that they'd shrivel into barely visible nothings before he could see them. Who would think that a weed would do that?

.........................................

And what I should do, because I feel this way, is to throw myself into the risk of that list, to accomplish something, to confront life head on. Should. Do.