Just a day after I was rejoicing about being lucky to be alive, I was losing my temper, yelling at coworkers and family and sobbing as if my heart had cracked open like a dam all the way home from work. It made me feel like a wild animal suddenly unmasked, and I know it’s because I rarely let myself feel angry and then I blow.  I want to learn how to live with that wild animal — not kill her spirit but not let her kill others’ either.  I hate that I’m not always honest with myself, that I’m afraid of the dark inside, that I’m always wishing someone would kiss a hurt and make it go away–when deep down I know I have to be both the hurt and the healer. Why isn’t real life like a blog? Full of epiphanies and arty insights and latte-thoughts to live by instead of the raw skin and scars that come from rubbing up against our own and others’ humanness.

A crazy driver almost killed me this this morning, but it was only later admiring my beautiful latte that I realized how lucky I’d been to escape with my life. And how it sometimes takes a close call to make me remember that every morning is a new leaf, a new unfolding. Anything could happen. You could have a vision, discover your spirit animal, get a message from your dead mother. The dog could learn to answer the phone. The man in the moon could be on the other end of the line. Does that sound preposterous? How much more preposterous that we rise every morning with hope, love with abandonment, make far-reaching plans, see them fail, plan again, endure with grace, dream, celebrate and play, all with the certain knowledge of our eventual extinction. How brave, beautiful and preposterous humans are.

This past weekend I was out on a friend’s boat in the creeks that run all through the marshes where I live. Porpoises were feeding next to our boat, great blue herons landed on the banks like majestic Concords approaching the runway, and it felt like we were living in Wind in the Willows. No fish were landed except baby sand sharks that got thrown back in to grow up and scare  the pants off people on the beach, but there was wine, a constant breeze and glorious sun blessing every pore and and wavelet and blade of grass. And no oil slicks. Yet. It’s extraordinary that one company has managed to destroy, maybe beyond restoring, a huge part of our coast. (Be sure to go to skirt.com or the print issue of Skirt in July to read “Deepwater Feminism,” a wonderful essay by Stephanie Hunt .) When will women exercise their voting and consumer power to protect Mother Earth instead of fighting each other? Emily’s List or the Susan B. Anthony List — why not one list of ferocious women devoted to healing the planet?

From the little reading I’ve done on Ayurvedic medicine, I’m pretty sure I lean toward the kapha type and right now I need to find my fire. Lately, I sleep way too much, avoid exercise and feel generally flat and uninterested in things happening around me. My mind wants to hide from the world, while I know my body needs vigorous sweaty stretching and exercise. Given my Puritanical upbringing, I’m quick to accuse myself of laziness, but I really think my whole system — emotional and physical — is totally out of balance. I just signed up for a 30 Days of Yoga home practice to try and find my way out of this mental torpor. It requires a commitment I’m loathe to give because I’d rather stay in bed until 15 minutes before I’m due at work, or sleep the weekend away and my problems with it. My 30 days starts on Saturday. I’ve set an intention (to wake up) and a commitment (to show up), two things that are missing in my life right now. I’ll give you a progress report at some point, but what do you do to wake up your sleeping beauty?

There’s a new section on Fridaville called “Creative First Aid.”  You’ll find things that inspire me to turn off tv and turn on imagination, to get off my couch and get creative … plus bits and pieces on keeping a journal, the writing craft, collagery, photography and assorted other arty alchemy. Hope you’ll check it out.

This was part of a Nick Cave exhibit of “Sound Suits” that I attended recently. The suits are out of this world, but it was this body suit that I fell in love with. Don’t we all flower and glitter and shine like this inside? What if we looked like that on the outside, too? A second skin that let our dream and visions materialize like a flower garden we’ve been hiding under Wolford black tights or skinny jeans or yoga pants or doctor’s scrubs. That guy you pass every day and dismiss as a jerk because he doesn’t return your hello. The cold fish who has enlarged diamonds rings on her fingers and a Dwell-worthy  house. The homeless guy under the bridge we avert our eyes from. What if they are blooming, too, and it showed on all of us?

I love the app that lets me take an ordinary photo and give it a vintage twist. At the same time, it makes me feel a bit guilty. Instead of waiting for magic-hour light, I used technology to give it a golden patina. In reality, the peonies are falling apart rather unphotogenically and the pot of brushes has been sitting there unused for way too long. I wish there were an app that could give my life this soft glow. Round off the awkward corners, smooth the rough spots, make it look like a series of scenes from an illuminated manuscript. Instead, my life has its fair share of awkward moments — a cluttered counter instead of this peaceful tableau, clean sheets piled on the table waiting to be folded, a dying basil plant. But in my mind’s eye, I see the romantically swooning peonies, old light slanting through the shutters and just-used paintbrushes instead neglected tools. Am I cheating by settling for wanna-be reality? Taking the easy way out? Or maybe it’s okay to try and turn the unremarkable into the rememorable now and then.

Last weekend, I went chasing the moon again, trying to pin it down, catch it with my iPhone camera, freeze in a photo an enchanted moment in time. Silly and futile. Almost full, or was it waning?…I don’t know. Not like this pink one, but a big gold peach, pouting, ready to split open and spill light everywhere. I’d been to a concert earlier and that same longing for the unnameable that certain music evokes in me was reinforced by the moon hunt. I came home elated and restless and started to read John O’Donohue’s Eternal Echoes: Exploring our Yearning to try and figure out why my dreams lately have been all about not belonging, about being on the outside trying to get in. About chasing the ineffable. Maybe we all feel that way, but most of the time we’re trying to satisfy that vague but deep yearning with material things – a new job, more clothes, a better car, the whole bag of chips, exercise, sex, cigarettes, wine, travel, unique experiences, a more powerful computer, parties, shoes and of course money money money. I’m guilty of it all!

Most of the time we say, “How are you?”, “How was your day?”, “Have a great day!”. But what if we asked:

* Are you hurting?

* Do you ever feel lonely?

* What is your greatest disappointment?

* What makes you happy besides work?

* Have I let you down?

* What’s missing from your life?

* Do you feel you can call on me for anything? If not, what do you feel you can call on me for?

* Are you carrying a secret you need to share? Would you trust me with it?

* What is your biggest, most hidden dream?

The only upside to being sick is taking hydrocodone cough syrup. You’re still sick, but you don’t seem to mind it as much

Every time Sally Field hawks Boniva on TV, I want to break one of her fragile wings.

I know handmade crafts are the hallmark of hip sustainable eco culture, but why is so much of it ugly, and will felting ever die?

I’m terrible at conducting job interviews. I never trust myself not to hire a secret psycho, which has actually happened twice.

My new guilty pleasure is Kelly Cutrone on “The City,” but she scares me.

Every time I apply self-tanner I look like I’ve been rolling in dung.

I spend more time reading about writing than actually writing.

I find it difficult to cry in front of people, so I probably come across as unfeeling.

Sometimes when I’m cooking, I pretend I’m on a Food Network show and talking to an audience. So nerdy.