I am literally struck dumb by the amount of stuff I am denying myself, or just forgetting about. Since I have been runningrunningrunning around, trying to line up sitters, launch my cards, work full time, return phone calls, blah blah blah adnauseum, I forget that there is a little place inside me that longs to be nurtured. Not a humongous, champagne and roses nurturing, but a small and worthy glimmer of an inner hug. Breathe, it says to me. Stop and give yourself an artist's date. Stop and just eat dinner. Just stop, okay? So I have been trying to recall the teeny things that make me smile inside, and feed that inner flame whenever I can. I listened to the Beatles, hungrily, wanting desperately to set up the turntable and play all the records I haven't been able to hear in an age and a half. I've been singing along to Muppet Central radio and froze when I heard "Little Things", and forced myself to be still for the heartbeat and a half the song takes and let it seep in to me. I took Sophie on a date to Trader Joe's and bought interesting and unusual food to try. I have been leaving SARK books around so that I can read at random and let myself nibble here and there and be fed. And I've dug out my journal - unwritten in since May, for crying out loud - and put it right next to my bed so I can remember to write again. Why does it take so long for me to notice that I need nourishment? I look down and see that I've been dug out of my pot and my roots are all tangled and dry, and I'm not sure how I got halfway across the room on the floor when my nice pot on the sunny windowsill is all the way over there. How did that happen?