Not Waiting...

Every week here in Santa Barbara, I look forward to the Independent coming out on Thursday. It's a free local paper that has articles on relevant topics to Santa Barbara, and it also has listings of events going on around town.

What I look forward to most consists of pictures and small "bios" of the dogs that are featured that week for adoption and Rob Brezny's Free Will Astrology.

I'm not a big astrology fan, I frankly don't care one way or the other. It's not that I don't believe that much of it can be accurate.

I just don't know much about it. And even though we're made up of everything that is "out there", I'm just not interested in living my life according to what someone else's interpretation of what's "out there" is.

My parents raised me to have confidence in my intuition, my "inner voice". The unfortunate part that they weren't counting on is that there are about 16 different "inner voices" in me that all keep vying for my attention. So, it can get kind of loud...and confusing.

If I could just get paid for it, it would be called "talent".

Until then, it's called "madness".

Anyway, with all of that being said, Rob Brezney is really creative in his weekly interpretations of the astrological horoscopes. And whether or not I believe them on any given week is beside the point. They're fun to read.

I found mine for this week to be rather inspiring. And I just wanted to share an excerpt with you for the pure beauty of it, in the hopes that it might inspire you as well.

It's actually taken from
Dara Wier's poem -

"A Modern Version of the Way the Rosary Was Once Said Throughout Western Europe in the Late Middle Ages"

"I'm not sewing velvet patches on a woolen blanket, not putting silver buttons back where they belong, not sweeping or folding, not in my right mind, not knowing what I owe or to whom I should bow down or thank or praise, no neither am I storing up good deeds I'll need when I need bailing out, nor do I wish to settle old scores, no not keeping wolves at bay, and I'm not disturbing antbeds, not in touch with fine madness, no, I'm not hiding under the kitchen table not wanting to listen anymore, nor am I staying awake in case I might miss something, no, I'm not staring forever into a fire, nor walking through a rainstorm into a cypress grove, no, and I'm not waiting for lightning to strike."