Soup

It's one of those mornings when I'm sitting at my desk trying to work and tears are just rolling down my face. I think it's chemical because none of the reasons I can think of for these tears seem to be enough. Maybe it's all the little things together stirring up a sorry-for-myself soup. It's the kind of day where I just need to go off on my own because I'm liable to have my feelings hurt by any little thing. Plus the house is a mess and I don't feel like doing anything about it. I miss my mom, her wise counsel, her calm assurance always that everything will be okay.

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I'm in the cafe at the bookstore now. My preferred seat next to the huge arching window became available almost as soon as I walked in, and I'm all set up there with my computer open and the writing going quite well, and properly distracting me from myself. In the midst of this I just had the strangest experience. Two women sat at the table beside me talking about past life regressions and Michael Newton's book Journey of Souls, and at last I couldn't help turning to them and letting them know I'd read all about that stuff too, and we had the most wonderful, warm and comforting conversation, which made me think we were supposed to sit next to each other in this cafe this afternoon, and make a soul connection, even though from all outer appearances we are so very different. We exchanged emails and plan to be in touch, which we may follow through on or not, it doesn't matter. They already gave me a gift. I wonder if my mother sent them. They are both gracious ladies, just like she was.