For therapy, interpreting inkblots doesn’t do it for me. So I turned the heat up, put the top down, set the music to blaring and drove under stormy skies, interpreting the ominous clouds overhead, told stories with their shapes.

Looked over the last few posts – tired of mopy whining.

Moods are weather patterns. You can’t control them – no tempest in a teapot set to whistle at your convenience. But the will, the will is your choice, the choice to catch pneumonia in the chill – or slap on goulashes, giggle, and play in the puddles. To laughing in the blue – to smiling at darkening skies…