I'm not quite sure what I'm hoping to say tonight as I write, but like most days, words dunk and swirl about until they're birthed -- somehow, some way, and somewhere. I'm just now sitting down to do what I love, and it's 10:00. I write of the plight of us American's, and in so doing, I hope to stir up some clarity with you all.

It seems I am running constantly to catch up to some set social quota which has been placed upon my brow. I don't know the origin of this standard, or who even regulates it, but I feel it, wriggle beneath it, and try in every possible way to get out from under it. I am as the ever-scavenging squirrel, hell-bent on seeking and storing, and never reaching my quota. I feel I have begun making calls, returning emails, and going to dinners to appease the ever-growing complaint that I seem to not like people. Word came back to me that it was said that I was "weird, and don't know like to be around people." I do like people, but how many can one manage well, and what kind of relationships can one possibly have when there are so many to satisfy?

I've been giving this much thought, because, while I've always felt this to some extent, it seemed different before. Perhaps, at this point in my life I am satisfied with the relationships I already have, and I'm not looking for clumps more. Perhaps I've frittered away so much of life in socializing that I'm tired of it comprising such time -- maybe I'm getting old -- but one thing is sure: I'm not satisfying the desires of others, and I am quite frustrated.

I do not wish to write a rant here, but rather to seek out a solution with anyone who is willing to offer suggestions. I love to write letters. I love to write. I love beauty, people, richness, and anything generally resembling the struggles of, and connected to humanity. I spend my days pondering the inlets to souls, and the respective tinctures to administer therein. I love people, but I am quite tired of trying ever so hard to explain why I am not everywhere, doing everything, with everyone at the same time.

I feel like one of those old wind up toys whose crank is always turned, and from whom a great outpouring might result, if time allowed. The skies are tight and bolted on their unseen, tilted axis, and I spit out the reality of unrecorded sunsets. Faces fade as young one's wed, the middle-aged observe, and the elderly pass on their way. Events occur enough in a day to maroon one to an island of contemplation from which he need not leave. The crooning crickets hum above the acoustic music I play, and I sit here stuck in these thoughts. More activity, less thought, and a numbness that radiates to the epicenter of humanity. So much skittering, and so little produce. I want more from my days, and it seems that less equals more in every equation I encounter. Any thoughts?

On this note, my beloved book club gals and I discovered an enchanted little pathway behind my cottage the other night. It has been a blessed refuge these past days, and I'm enriched each time I enter this shady alcove of branch and leaf. The temperatures here passed comfortable some time ago, but somehow, it's been fun. I'm enjoying again the flora, which is secondary when skyline's and mountainscapes abound. My garden is growing nicely in this different soil, and I'm slowly [hopefully] mending my back.

I write this all because I really am desiring some feedback. I need not consolation if chastisement is due, and if anyone has some life to give me, I invite you to do so. I hope you are all well as summer makes her full approach in every corner of the northern hemisphere.