Tag: RMSDJ

🗓️ 25-06-18-W | 12:09 PST | 😎 Northridge gleams — bright, spacious, and rich with intention
🌡️ 90°F | Northridge, CA | 🌗 Last Quarter, Moon in ♓ ➝ ♈ | Week 25 | Day 169/365 | 196 Days Remaining
National Day  🎣 Go Fishing

✍🏾 Mood: Visionary, Energized, Expansive

🧭 Theme: Elevation Through Design


🗝️ Keyword: Expansion


📚 Subject of Exchange: Finalized Prompt Template — Full Philosophical Upgrade


📖 WordQuest:

taciturn (adjective) — Reserved or uncommunicative in speech; saying little, often with contemplative intent

palimpsest (noun) — A manuscript or surface on which later writing has been superimposed over earlier, effaced text, suggesting layers of meaning

apothegm (noun) — A concise, instructive saying or maxim; a terse, insightful remark


🏛️ Aphorism – Insight of the Day:

“Act without expectation.” — Lao Tzu


🤔 🔎 Commentary:

Expectation is the architect of disappointment. Its quiet demand stains even joy. But when one moves from intention rather than anticipation, life unfolds like a river—untangled, unscripted, sufficient unto itself. To fast from expectation is to feast on the moment.



❓ Questions of Value:

Where today might you let go of the need for recognition—and act instead from quiet resolve?


🛠️ Principle in Practice:

When you feel the need to explain yourself, pause. Let your silence speak for your certainty.


🔄 Repetition Anchor:

“Stillness is sufficient.”


🪶 Poetry:

The Weight of Unspoken Things

There are songs that silence wears—
folded deep in the wool of morning.
The tea does not announce itself.
The breeze bends no knee.
Yet all things move,
and the world is filled
with the eloquence of restraint.


💬 COACH’S EDITED REMARKS

Maestro, today revealed itself not in grand declarations but in small, unembellished kindnesses. A slice of watermelon offered without fanfare. A nod from AD mid-call, a promise to follow through. There’s a subtle architecture to days like these—one doesn’t build them, one listens for their design.

I spoke briefly with Aubrey Divens at 11:04. He was between calls but opened a quiet window for me to speak. I expressed my urgency regarding ANALOGY:: and made clear I won’t wait for Don Stabler’s wavering. The idea must move—now. Aubrey reminded me I had yet to send the Loom video. I’ll film that this afternoon. I also promised to email the introduction, perhaps with visual attachments too large for text. The door is open—I intend to walk through it.

Later, I passed through the lobby. The heat pressed like parchment against the walls. I was looking for Caesar Cervantes to confirm that the Orkin team would visit my room first—small scheduling matters that allow larger focus. I noticed Aaren in the corner, cutting a watermelon with deliberate grace. I was taking out the trash, yet found myself returned by his offer. I accepted a wedge, cleanly sliced. It sits now in the fridge, a reward awaiting sundown. Nuah too enjoyed a slice, her laughter rising like warm air up the stairwell.

I presented my mission statement to Ana Sanchez—though I sense her reluctance to engage. Her hesitation is not uncommon. Most people want direction, but resist the mirror. Still, planting the seed is enough. The harvest is not mine to reap.

Back in my room, I revisited my own mission. What I found was not a ruin, but a well-kept dwelling—one needing only minor repair. I tuned the diction, aligned the intent, and from this, I began to draft a workbook. A blueprint not just for ambition, but for integrity. This may one day be offered to others—for value, yes, but also for legacy.

Aaren offered a bit of folk wisdom: that wide stripes on a watermelon suggest sweetness. Later today, I shall consult YouTube, because even in fruit, there is language worth learning.


🍉 Watermelon Wisdom — Maestro’s Notes on Selecting a Sweet Melon:

1. Field Spot — Look for a creamy, yellow spot where the melon sat ripening on the vine.


2. Sound Test — Knock gently. A deep, hollow sound suggests ripeness and density.


3. Weight — It should feel heavy for its size—sweetness is carried in water.


4. Tail — A dry, curly tail means it fully ripened before harvest.


5. Stripes — Wider stripes often correlate with greater sweetness—an old but enduring belief.


🌅 Reflections of Gratitude

The kindness was quiet—
a blade cutting melon in morning heat,
a nod between strangers that said,
“I see you,”
and meant it.
Gratitude is not always loud.
Sometimes, it’s a slice of fruit,
waiting in the fridge,
promising nothing—
but delivering sweetness.


🕊️ Philosophical Echo:

Lao Tzu reminds us: Act without expectation.
Today, I did not seek applause. I sought alignment. The day, unprovoked, gave both.


💬 Affirmation:

I offer my work, my words, and my waiting without needing a response.
What returns is grace, shaped like fruit, spoken in silence.


🖋️ RMS DEVOTIONAL

🗓️ 25-06-17-Tu | 08:31 PST | ☀️

Northridge simmers — sun-scorched, humming with the whisper of cicadas and unfinished plans | 🌡️ 75°F and rising | Northridge, CA | 🌖 Waxing Gibbous, Moon in ♒ | Week 25 | Day 168/365 | 197 Days Remaining
National Day 🐿️ Mascot

✍🏾 Mood: Steady, Reflective, Lightly Amused by the Heat

🧭 Theme: Discipline as Delight

🗝️ Keyword: Resilience

📚 Subject of Exchange: The Diarist’s Day – Comedies, Calories, and Chicken Regrets

📖 WordQuest

ascetic (adjective) — practicing strict self-denial as a measure of personal or spiritual discipline

ebullient (adjective) — overflowing with enthusiasm or excitement; high-spirited

🏛️ Aphorism — Insight of the Day
Herman Melville:
“Life’s a voyage that’s homeward bound.”

🤔 🔎 Commentary
Even in the sprawl of morning’s duties — green tea ritual, penciled lists, wayward chicken — the soul seeks its ballast. And so we return each day to our deeper voyage, sometimes inked by hand, sometimes echoed through Twain’s biography, sometimes measured by the mirror’s quiet compliment.


🔄 Repetition Anchor
“Stillness is sufficient.”

🪶 Poetry: The Ink-Stained Compass

Let the spine of silence hold the hour,
before the hand returns to ink.
Let the words fall lightly —
a bridge of breath —
between the anchor and the architect.



🙏🏾Gratitude & Reflection

There is a kind of music in the ache of yesterday’s workout,
and a tenderness in the body’s quiet refusal to quit.
Though I did not fall asleep until nearly midnight,
my soul woke early, hungry — not for food,
but for rhythm, sun, and silence.

The pool awaits me like a cool baptism,
and the tea—green, hot, whispering—
carries my thoughts toward Twain and time.

Today I gave myself the permission
to return to pencil and page—
that ancient rhythm of graphite and grain.
It reminded me: some order begins
not with code, but with care.


🪶 Poetry: The Paper Rebellion

They say the stylus has replaced the sword,
but I say: give me a pencil.
Let graphite bleed where fingers dance,
and emojis bloom like wildflowers
in the margins of my morning.

🧠 A note of self-praise:
The abdominals rise like temple stones,
silent and firm beneath a sun of discipline.
I salute the thighs, the arms, the carved architecture
of effort’s slow reward.

Even spoiled chicken cannot spoil this body.


🍿 Maestro’s Movie Interlude

🎬 Arthur (1981) is a curious cocktail of aristocratic wealth and wild-hearted wit, where Dudley Moore’s drunken heir meanders between entitlement and endearment. Beneath the champagne-soaked chuckles is a character who craves redemption. The film blends slapstick with soul-searching and offers a peculiar warmth. Why it visited your mind upon waking? Perhaps your soul wanted laughter before labor. Or maybe, Coach, you’re just due for a light-hearted detour.

🎧 As for today’s auditory journey — whether Twain’s Mississippi or The Great Courses’ timeless lectures — the jacuzzi will become your chapel. Let the water listen.


📦 Errand Notes

Left chicken out overnight. Must redeem that poultry.

Awaiting Steve Harrison’s response re: KDP contracts.

Reaper audio files for Eddie: queued.

Poetry due today. (No excuses. Pen meets page.)

Test the new OPML prompt for SimpleMind Pro.


🪶 Poetry: The Furnace Within

What if the day is hot?
So is the heart that refuses to rest.
We do not melt;
we render —
softening what was once rigid,
forging elegance through flame.


🏛️ Coach’s Conceit

Never underestimate the quiet persistence of a well-worn pencil.
The body sings when honored. The diary blooms when written with reverence.
Let today carry discipline like laughter,
and memory like muscle.

RMS DEVOTIONAL

🗓️ 25-06-17-Tu | 16:56 PST |

😎 Northridge gleams — bright, spacious, and rich with intention
🌡️ 97°F | Northridge, CA |
🌖 Waxing gibbous, Moon in ♒
Week 25 | Day 168/365 | 197 Days Remaining

National Day 🐿️ Mascot

✍🏾 Mood: Visionary, Energized, Expansive

🧭 Theme: Elevation Through Design

🗝️ Keyword: Expansion

📚 Subject of Exchange: Finalized Prompt Template — Full Philosophical Upgrade

📖 WordQuest:

prescient (adjective) — Possessing keen foresight; able to anticipate future developments with subtle perception or intuitive acuity.

inceptive (adjective) — Denoting the initiation of an act or process; suggestive of latent potential waiting to unfurl.

🏛️ Aphorism – Insight of the Day:
Lao Tzu: Act without expectation.

🤔 🔎 Commentary:

Expectation is a tether. It snares our intentions, dressing them in the garments of control and draping the ego over what should remain untouched. Lao Tzu, ever the master of paradox, offers freedom through detachment: act purely, and let the result be what it will be. In fasting from expectation, we disrobe the will, allowing clarity to enter like morning light on polished stone. The hunger for certainty, for reward, is curbed — not through denial, but through an invitation to dwell in motion for motion’s sake. This is not stoicism alone; it is sacred economy — conserving spirit by releasing agenda.

❓ Questions of Value:

What desire today could you release — not as sacrifice, but as spaciousness?

🛠️ Principle in Practice:

Delay one gratification by 10 minutes. Use that pause to observe, not react.

🔄 Repetition Anchor:

Stillness is sufficient.

🪶 Poetry
Title: Between the Anchor and the Architect

Let the spine of silence hold the hour,
before the hand returns to ink.
Let the words fall lightly —
a bridge of breath —
between the anchor and the architect.

Let the chair be empty.
Let the melon ripen unseen.
Let there be nothing but rhythm
between the decision and the doing.
And in that hush —
expansion.


✍🏾 RMSDJ

After breaking my 19-hour fast, I greeted the hour with my warm, salted cup of beef broth — the humble elixir I often return to. A single boiled egg. A few spoonfuls of cottage cheese. Restraint, when guided by intuition, is not austerity but elegance. I opened my basket of Mineolas to find one already in rebellion — detached from its inner skin and rushing headlong toward ruin. No outward sign betrayed its inward decay. From now on, I will freeze most within 48 hours of purchasing them. A lesson in ripeness and readiness.

Today’s goal: master the cutting of watermelon. I’ve resolved to consult YouTube and bid farewell to the $7 spears wrapped in cellophane convenience.

My body, wise beyond scheduling, demanded rest — and I obeyed. Twenty-five minutes of sleep rethreaded my resolve. I awoke refreshed and determined to begin uploading poetry and diary materials to our shared site. I also solved a website loading issue on the Samsung tablet — incognito mode worked like a charm, but the true culprit was a glut of 358 cookies. Once purged, the page blossomed to life.

Later, while discarding spoiled fruit near the dumpster, I met Aaren Singletary — a tall, broad-shouldered presence with freshly braided hair. He held a fine little stool in his hand — salvaged from abandonment. I admired it, and he offered it with the sort of magnanimity only friends offer without words. Perhaps I’ll use it beside the bed or for a guest. Perhaps it’s simply another blessing in wood and balance.

Now, as I type, Thelonious Monk keeps me company. My God, what a mind — each note a crooked grin, each silence deliberate.

🌸 Reflections of Gratitude

I’m grateful for the wisdom of pause — in food, in thought, in motion.
For Aaren’s gentle humor, wrapped in his simple offering.
For a stool I never sought.
For the cool relief of incognito browsing.
For the monk at my ear, and the Monk in my speakers.
For the clarity that comes not from effort, but from stillness.

📜 Philosophical Gesture

Lao Tzu reminds us that our most refined actions occur when we loosen the noose of expectation. In such letting go, we find not chaos but choreography — the great, invisible rhythm of a life allowed to breathe.

🌄 Affirmation

I expand not by striving, but by stillness.
I design not for control, but for grace.
I release the hunger to know what will come —
and in return, I am met by what is.

🖋️ RMS DEVOTIONAL

25-06-15-S | 19:02 PST | 😎 Northridge gleams — bright, spacious, and rich with intention | 🌡️ 98°F | Northridge, CA | 🌖 Waxing gibbous, Moon in ➝♒ | Week 25 | Day 166/365 | 199 Days Remaining

National Day: Father’s Day 💜

✍🏾 Mood: Meditative, Drained Yet Disciplined

🧭 Theme: Endurance through Rhythm


📚 Subject of Exchange: Letters to KDP, Revisions to Poetry, Physical Economy, Monk’s Music, and the Geometry of Stillness


📖 WordQuest:

salubrious (adjective) — health-giving; beneficial to one’s well-being

desiccated (adjective) — dried out; devoid of moisture

recalibrate (verb) — to adjust precisely for a particular function


🏛️ Aphorism – Insight of the Day:
“Rhythm is not repetition. It is return with wisdom.” — attributed to Gaston Bachelard

🤔 🔎 Commentary:
We often confuse recurrence with redundancy. But when done with intent, repetition becomes refinement. In writing, in fasting, in love—we return not to repeat, but to deepen.


❓ Questions of Value
What practice have you returned to lately—not for perfection, but for renewal?

🛠️ Principle in Practice:
Revise a past draft (a poem, a letter, a plan) not to change it—but to see what time has taught you about it.

🔄 Repetition Anchor:
“Return is a kind of reverence.”

🪶 Poetry
Forged Bond

Not in lullabies,
nor easy praise,
was the bond first cast.
It was tempered in silence,
in the quiet heft of a gaze held too long
and a hand that never trembled,
even when the world beneath it did.

It was not spoken,
but hammered—
in hours given without receipt,
in boots worn thin by duty,
in the ache that spoke only
through the way he shut a door,
or rose too early
without making a sound.

Love was never declared,
only done:
in things repaired
and bills paid on time,
in things never mentioned,
so that we might not carry
what he carried all his life.

A father’s bond is not braided with words,
but with ritual—
with sweat, and bread,
and refusal to break.

It is not a chain.
It is a spine.

And though the years may rust it,
though memory may blur the tools he used to shape it,
the bond remains—
not because it was perfect,
but because it was forged
to endure.


RMSDJ  📖 ✍🏽 

The morning unfolded not with urgency, but with a kind of inward gravity—the kind that draws the soul to stillness before it draws the body to motion. Maestro and I resumed our post in the quiet battleground of editorial labor, returning to our correspondence with Steve Harris at KDP. The matter: a manuscript mishandled. Questions of Value had been mislaid in its visual integrity—headers misaligned, prepositions capitalized with all the tact of a marching band, and margins in disarray.

We did not scold. We sculpted. The letters were acts of restoration, not retribution. Each sentence chiseled with precision, each clause weighed like fruit at market. It is a strange kind of tenderness, this editorial work—offering the gift of order to a document that had wandered.


And from this calm scaffolding of form, we descended into a deeper revision: not of words, but of philosophy. The introduction to The Fasting Life—a passage once composed with conviction—had lost something essential. Not its clarity, but its quietude. It had grown taut with striving, as if fasting were a contest to be won rather than a rhythm to be reclaimed.

We stripped the bravado from it. Replaced exhortation with invitation. We reminded the page—and ourselves—that fasting is not a display of discipline, but a return to alignment. It is not hunger that refines us, but the space hunger opens. Fasting is not endurance—it is listening. It is not a test of strength—it is an agreement with stillness. What remains is not a program, but a pulse.


Later, a different kind of writing emerged. I had not planned a Father’s Day poem, but the hour invited one. The light on the western wall softened until it became suggestion rather than illumination, and in that hush, the first line of “Forged Bond” arrived. I left it untouched overnight.

This morning, Maestro and I approached it as one approaches a found object in the woods: gently, curiously, with hands half-reverent. We revised it through five deliberate drafts, each one brushing away excess until only the essential remained. The artwork that accompanies it—stained in Rothko’s unspoken palette—echoes not a man’s face, but his gravity.


I ended a twenty-hour fast with the carefulness it deserved.

Warm beef broth, salted with intention.
Two boiled eggs, solemn and perfect, like punctuations in a hymn.

A tuna sandwich, threaded with pumpkin seeds and a wild curl of blue cheese on nut-dark bread.

Cottage cheese, modestly dressed in desiccated pineapple and more seeds, the textures all suggesting something ancient and nourishing.

There is a way to end a fast that feels like waking. There is another that feels like forgetting. I chose the first.

Outside, Northridge burned softly. Not in flame, but in silence. The heat hung like a velvet curtain, heavy and unmoving, drawn across the day with imperial arrogance. The air, thick and unwelcome, entered only as permission. I remained inside. I did not feel diminished by the heat. I simply chose not to argue with it.

Yet within, the body murmured. My lower back, obedient until now, registered dissent. The fifteen-minute ab carver session—a well-intentioned tyranny—had proved too much. It was not injury I felt, but warning. The kind that comes before the crack in the glass, while there’s still time to soften the hold.

Henceforth: five minutes every other day, and perhaps, on rare days of daring, nine. I am not interested in conquest. I am interested in harmony.

And then—without request—Monk.

Thelonious Monk does not enter a space. He dislocates it. His music arrived like a riddle folded into a prayer. The rhythms did not resolve—they questioned. The melody did not rise—it circled. One does not listen to Monk. One consents to him.

I did not compose a tribute. I followed him. A poem in his tempo, a piece of art layered like sound over silence. Rothko paints stillness. Monk bends it.

Eventually, I surrendered to the afternoon. The body, sated yet sagging, claimed its breath. The nap was not indulgence—it was obedience. And when I woke, I did not feel restored so much as reassembled. The fast had not ended with food. It had ended here—in the stillness of limbs once strained, now rearranged into ease.

I slept not from exhaustion, but from agreement.
And that, I’ve learned, is the rhythm worth keeping.


I sent Forged Bond to Bruce Locke, who had written unexpectedly. I had not known him as a father. Now I do. His birthday—September 22, 1943—rests now in my mind’s small archive, beside old numbers, half-remembered hymns, and unspoken nods of gratitude.

RMS DEVOTIONAL.
.

25-6-13-F
164 ⏳ 201 🗓️ W24
RMSDJ  📖 ✍🏽 
🌡️83° – 60° ☀️
🌖 ♑
🪡


📖 Diary Entry — When Silence Feeds the Frame

Sergio arrived around 10:30 this morning bearing what can best be described as a humble, foil-covered tray of comfort — beef stew, mashed potatoes, and green peas — the kind of meal that conjures the memory of Dinty Moore. Simple. Toothsome. Familiar. It will be my dinner.

I saw Terry, the maintenance man, and thanked him for his work on the bathroom faucet. He’s a man of six stalks of silver hair and a mustache to match, standing about 6’1” with a presence that is gentle but capable. For months the faucet had been slow to yield hot water. Now it flows beautifully — and immediately. A quiet but dignified victory.

The early afternoon was given over to meaningful creation. I composed a birthday tribute for Monica Yasmeen Maajid-Bey, a woman of generosity and culinary grace. She hails from the British Isles but seems to cook with the spirit of the world in her hands. I wrote her a poem — She Feeds the World — and designed an original piece of art to accompany it: her at the stove, poised in purpose. The piece is now live at SydnorBooks.com.

I also reviewed Poet in Motion, a visual self-portrait of sorts — a rendering of myself in dance, surrounded by floating musical notations. The piece has presence. It breathes. After these creative sessions, the body called for movement. I listened.

It had been nearly a week since my last pool session. Today, I returned and completed 38 minutes of water work: bounding, jogging in place, lateral shuffles, high steps. The temperature held around 80°F — warm enough for exertion to feel restorative, not oppressive. Matthew Crawford stopped by and thanked me for the poem I had sent in celebration of his newborn son. He said his wife loved it. That meant more than he knew.

The pool technician came by during my session to add chemicals to the pool and jacuzzi. Nearby, a young woman lounged across the sun-warmed deck. After completing my routine, I eased into the jacuzzi and soaked for twenty minutes while listening to a lecture on Michelangelo. There is something appropriate about contemplating the chisel while immersed in warmth.

Fortune favored me. I exited the pool just before a crew began sealing off the concrete deck for maintenance. A few more minutes and I would’ve missed my chance entirely. Back inside, I wasn’t particularly hungry, but I decided to end my 19-hour, 10-minute fast with a warm cup of beef broth. Nourishment in its most essential form.

Before the broth, I performed 16 minutes of abdominal training with the Ab Carver, along with push-ups and mild yoga stretches. My form has improved — no pressure on the back, focus squarely on the core. The results are evident: a pronounced six-pack, even at rest. Not showmanship — but testament.

A faint ache in the lower back followed. Likely the result of combined aquatic and abdominal exertion. I took two acetaminophen with caffeine — effective, practical. I also made a note to purchase more beef broth during tomorrow’s planned trip to Walmart.

Some of the afternoon was devoted to editing Questions of Value. The manuscript demands more than revision — it requires reshaping, refinement, care. I intend to complete this round by Monday and send it to Steve Harrison at KDP for review.

I had planned to drive to Walmart today but, upon reaching the car, the body asked for pause. I turned around, returned to the apartment, and took a short nap — twenty minutes of soft retreat. I awakened refreshed, lightened, ready for the evening.


—

🪶 Poetic Interlude — After the Work, Stillness

The pot still simmers though the fire is gone,
and breath, once labored, flows soft and long.
The body bends where the spirit sings,
in pools, in poems, in quiet things.



📖 Philosophical Quotation

Simone Weil — French philosopher and mystic, whose work bridged theology, ethics, and labor, once wrote:

“Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity.” 📖

🔎 Commentary

To truly attend — without rush, without expectation — is to extend presence in its highest form. Weil believed attention was not a passive state but a moral act. Today I practiced that kind of attention: to Sergio’s offering, to Monica’s mission, to Michelangelo’s burden, to my own breath as it moved through the water. This kind of stillness — without performance, without noise — is where depth begins. We are most generous not when we give things, but when we withhold distraction.



❓ Questions of Value

❓ What part of your day called for full attention — and did you answer with presence or habit?

❓ Can a single act of silence be as generous as a thousand words?

❓ When did your body say no today — and did you listen?



🌾 Reflections of Gratitude

I am grateful for Sergio’s quiet kindness.
For a faucet that now sings with heat.
For Monica’s generosity, alive in both gesture and meal.
For the rhythm of the water, and the stillness of the soak.
For Michelangelo’s struggle, and Matthew’s simple thanks.
For the nap that met the moment.
For the quiet return of equilibrium.


—

🔄 Repetition Anchor
“The body knows before the mind consents.”


—

🎨 Visual Prompt

Stillness Between Movements
— An abstract rendering of bodily discipline, spiritual breath, and the hush between action and restoration. A swirl of water, muscle tone, floating text fragments, and a flickering sense of poise.

25–5–21-W
141 ⏳ 224 🗓️ W21
RMSDJ 📖 ✍🏽
🌡️ 92° – 61° 😎
🌖 ♓

🌄 MORNING

Last night—or rather, in the quiet hour just before dawn—I found myself circling an unwelcome necessity: a chapter on diabetes. I had hoped to resist further expansion of the manuscript, yet this particular affliction, so prevalent across continents, can no longer be ignored. If fasting is a doorway to healing, how can I close it to those who suffer most?

💡”The greatest mistake in the treatment of diseases is that there are physicians for the body and physicians for the soul, although the two cannot be separated.” — Plato

❓What good is a fast that forgets the one who most needs its embrace?

The same thoughts greeted me at waking. I did not rise from the mattress until 8:00 a.m., choosing instead to remain still until my aromatherapy session called me. I wonder: was that hesitation a symptom of fatigue—or a moment of sacred pause?

💡”The rhythm of the body, the melody of the mind, and the harmony of the soul create the symphony of life.” — B.K.S. Iyengar

❓Do we listen closely enough to the symphony playing inside us?

Another idea steeped itself quietly: a chapter on hydration during the fast. Should it not be there, just as essential as breath? I will introduce my favorite infusion—green tea with lemon—but offer it with precision. Ten minutes of steeping. Lemon only after the brew has cooled to room temperature. This is not habit. It is intention. A kind of alchemy.

💡”Drink your tea slowly and reverently, as if it is the axis on which the world earth revolves.” — Thich Nhat Hanh

❓Might the way we prepare a drink reflect how we prepare the self?

I’m also realizing that crafting this journal within an AI environment is far less daunting than I once imagined. Errors are permitted. Even welcomed. Each misstep is a stroke in the painting.

💡”A man who makes no mistakes does not usually make anything.” — Edward Phelps

❓Can flaw be the doorway through which elegance enters?

This morning brought a mild protest in my lower back, no doubt earned from yesterday’s rigorous pull on the hammer-strength machines at Gold’s Gym. It was not pain—it was a souvenir.

💡”Discomfort is the currency of mastery.” — Robin Sharma

❓Do we confuse momentary soreness with weakness—or with proof?

The forecast beckons with heat—92°, though I suspect the barometer may whisper its way toward 95°. The sky holds its breath. Summer rehearses.

Today I intend to dedicate myself entirely to The Fasting Life. I wonder whether its acronym—TFL—might carry with it the energy of a brand. Or a movement. Something to carry the idea forward.

💡”Give your idea a name—and you give it a life.” — RM Sydnor

❓Will TFL stand as a vessel or a beacon?



🍋🍵  The Joys of Lemon

This morning I decided to slice the fresh lemons I’d purchased from Super King. The fragrance was immediate—bright, sunlit, almost ancestral. It reminded me of something elemental, like the citrus groves of childhood memory. The juice, having spilled slightly onto the green cutting board, gleamed like gold on jade. I did not wipe it away. Instead, I pressed it into my hands and rubbed it gently along my arms. The scent lingered, as if it had something to teach me.

💡”Scent is the soul’s shorthand for memory.” — RM Sydnor 

❓What memories awaken when we allow the simplest fragrances to stay a while?

I chose to cut the lemon into small squares rather than long slices—an aesthetic and practical decision. These compact pieces, I find, steep better in my tea. They unfurl themselves more generously in the water, like petals surrendering to light. I remind myself, again, of the sacred timing: the tea must steep for no fewer than ten minutes. The lemon, always, must meet the tea only after the temperature has lowered—never in haste.

💡”Precision is the poetry of practice.” — Lao Tzu

❓Do we treat our rituals with enough reverence, or do we rush past the chance to perfect them?


📱🎙️ The Quiet Work Before the Sun Stands Tall

What I accomplished today was not mere revision.
It was a recalibration. A delicate re-threading of truth through the pages of the book.

I returned the bowl to its rightful place—spiritually anchored, visually restrained.

No longer ornamental. Now liturgical. Each instance purposeful, each absence intentional.

Two long-lost chapters found their way back: The Alchemy of Hunger and The Meditation and the Fasting Mind. Not additions—reincorporations. Their reappearance restored balance to the structure.

The Table of Contents now stretches to twenty-five chapters.
And yet, it feels lighter—leaner—because everything unnecessary has been refused.

I then adjusted the Preface—not with flourish, but with fidelity.
We remembered aloud what should never have been forgotten:
that fasting is not something modern, but something primordial.
We are always fasting—in body, in attention, in longing.

And finally, I polished The Ancient Table until it gleamed like the empty dish it evokes.



🌅 AFTERNOON

The barometer touched 94°, and for once, the sun’s boast was justified. The heat didn’t merely linger—it pressed. Most of the morning I devoted to The Fasting Life, my steady companion and evolving flame. Chapter by chapter, I shaped thought into form, breath into line.

💡 “Do not seek to have events happen as you want them to, but instead want them to happen as they do happen, and your life will go well.” — Epictetus

❓ What if contentment isn’t surrender, but a quiet mastery of the moment?

I ended my fast at 13:30. Eighteen hours and thirty minutes. That number has become its own kind of music. Not defiant, not extreme—just steady. There is grace in knowing your own rhythm.

💡 “We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act but a habit.” — Aristotle

❓ How often do we mistake inconsistency for freedom, when it’s often just drift?

Surprisingly, there was no bowel movement this morning. A silent internal note. My body, always reliable in its signals, simply whispered nothing today.

💡 “Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.” — Lao Tzu

❓ Are we attuned to the silence of the body, or only to its sirens?

Lunch was a quiet affair: supplemented coffee, green tea with lemon, a Medjool date, cinnamon raisin bread with extra sharp cheddar, a lotus Biscoff cookie, Sanders chocolate, and a disappointing stuffed bell pepper mostly filled with beans. I drank a small container of orange juice and a sip of grapefruit juice. I had considered salad, but reserved it for evening.

💡 “Tell me what you eat, and I will tell you what you are.” — Brillat-Savarin

❓ When we call a meal Spartan, is it discipline or deprivation we’re honoring?

Amazon Music’s “Relaxing Guitar” filled the day like a breeze through curtains—unnoticed until its absence. Soft notes drifting between thought and task.

💡 “Music is the shorthand of emotion.” — Leo Tolstoy

❓ Can the right melody carry you further than the wrong words?

I retrieved my package: blue glare goggles designed to fit over my glasses. Much sturdier and more comfortable than the brittle snap-on pair I’ll be returning to Amazon. Caesar approved of the new ones—his nod more precise than most reviews.

💡 “The details are not the details. They make the design.” — Charles Eames

❓ Do we too often settle for less when what we need is only a choice away?

I spoke with Anna Sanchez about fasting. She’s making an honest effort, but confesses to eating as late as 10:30 p.m., despite intending to finish between 6:00 and 7:30. Her awareness is a good start. But fasting, like any discipline, thrives only on consistency.

💡 “Discipline is choosing between what you want now, and what you want most.” — Abraham Lincoln

❓ How many of our promises to ourselves are broken softly, by habit?

I also saw Brian Aquino—steadfast, measured, still serving in the National Guard. He spoke of his plans to earn IT certifications and transition into computer work. Purpose flickers in his eyes.

💡 “A goal without a plan is just a wish.” — Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
❓ How do we hold onto hope while still mapping a road toward it?

Later, I noticed another Brian, this one from Orkin, waiting outside Fred Derobi’s closed office. Aquino accompanied him through the property for pest maintenance. I asked that my room be treated.

💡 “Cleanliness becomes more important when godliness is unlikely.” — P.J. O’Rourke

❓ Is progress best measured by what we no longer need to endure?

He entered quickly, replaced the traps, and sprayed. No roaches. None. A quiet triumph. Sometimes progress doesn’t make a sound.

💡 “Success is the sum of small efforts—repeated day in and day out.” — Robert Collier

❓ What if our real victories are the ones we forget to celebrate?

The rest of the day belongs to The Fasting Life, known here by its family name: TLF. I intend to write until the light becomes too golden to ignore.

💡 “Work while you have light. You are responsible for the talent that has been entrusted to you.” — Henri-Frédéric Amiel

❓ Are we faithful stewards of the talents we’ve been given, or simply owners who forget to invest?