DAH is me, David Anthony Hance. 
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First up this week: Lounging … 
First digression: Why does the "g" in the middle of "lounging" sound like a "j"? No answer here. 
There are things in my life that bring me down. Still, I'd much rather be alive than not. I would also prefer live lounging without guilt, with a little reading and writing, some British television, a nice nap, and more music (than I currently have integrated into my lounging). It's the lounging guilt-free I find difficult. Should I always feel there's something more important, essential, or expected (by myself or others)? That makes no intellectual sense to me. And I wasn't raised with religion. Still, I clearly have either a bent sense of reality or a Western-Protestant work ethic baked deep in my (still living) bones. 

Second up this week, Lunging … 
Second digression: Why are "lounging" and "lunging" such similarly spelled words, yet with such dissimilar meanings? No answer here, either. 
I too-often rouse myself from my lounging and lunge up, off, and away from my day bed. This disturbs at least one of the dogs that often lounge (guilt-free!) nearby me. Not that I actually have a daybed, although we do have a couple of no-spring, very comfortable, convertible sofas, and I usually lounge on one of them. These convertible sofas (American Leather) were very expensive when we purchased them years ago, but they've held up so very well, despite several big moving adventures. Anyway, I'm lunging from lounging for a purpose … usually not anything significant (refill my water bottle? find a book? grab a quick snack?). Then, hopefully, it's back to lounging, where I reverse lunge into comfort once more, having been marginally purposeful in life.  

Third up this week, Longing … 
Third digression: What went wrong with the "g" in the middle of "longing"? It doesn't sound like a "j". I got nothing.
Or maybe a little more than nothing. Both the immediately preceding paragraphs included elements of longing. Per Merriam-Webster, longing: "an eager desire especially for something remote or unattainable : craving." I like longing, and I thought the word "craving" was quite cool, until it seemed it could be related to craven: "lacking even the rudiments of courage : characterized by abject defeatism : contemptibly fainthearted" (Merriam-Webster … damn them for shattering my daybed dream). Here comes the guilt again. I'm afraid it's time for lunging from lounging despite my longing. 

Fourth digression: Why do I think about things like this?

A book about empathy … 
I Hear You, by Michael S. Sorensen
Subtitled "The surprisingly simple skill behind extraordinary relationships." I'm about to dive into David Brooks recent How To Know A Person, but I Hear You was adjacent on my shelf, unread, and a few years older (2020). Also, I Hear You is only about 140 pages. I tackled it first. It's a quick read, and even if you already practice Sorensen's tenets, I believe most readers will find his "Four-Step Method" (pages 67-106 in my edition) "interesting, insightful, and helpful," as the author hopes. I appreciate his suggestion that his methods aren't intended for use with children, and that he uses the Oxford comma (I, myself, am a believer). Sorensen's final paragraph:

"Anyone looking for a book that explains the basics of validation in relationships and how to provide validation in an easy, stepwise manner would likely enjoy I Hear You" (Len Lantz, MD, in The Psychiatry Resource, 24 December 2020)


And a bit more … 

"Basket of Figs" by Ellen Bass

Bring me your pain, love. Spread 
it out like fine rugs, silk sashes, 
warm eggs, cinnamon
and cloves in burlap sacks. Show me

the detail, the intricate embroidery 
on the collar, tiny shell buttons, 
the hem stitched the way you were taught,
pricking just a thread, almost invisible.

Unclasp it like jewels, the gold 
still hot from your body. Empty 
your basket of figs. Spill your wine.

That hard nugget of pain, I would suck it, 
cradling it on my tongue like the slick 
seed of pomegranate. I would lift it

tenderly, as a great animal might 
carry a small one in the private 
cave of the mouth.


And that's all for this week.
From Mary Oliver's "Sometimes"