Train of thought today, sorry.
I'm consumed with gratefulness for the tiny rituals, like Ben playing guitar every night, schooling the children in Hendrix and Sabbath while they finish their dinners, and rituals like late at night when we collapse on the couch in front of a movie and split a green apple, always green because they're crunchy and sweet and an apple a day keeps the demons away. Or something like that.
I'm watching the skies for the coming thunderstorms and glad to have the afternoon in front of me to write and work for once, free from the worry that has consumed me recently. I have come to think that I worry too much about things that don't bother others. Like, way WAY too much. Anxiety unleashed and out of control and I have settled for it as an uncomfortable status quo, too lazy to move from where I rest on my bed of nails because it's a bed and beds are where we lie, correct?
I'm relieved that there are still good people in this world, good people like the plumber who didn't charge me because the pipe is fine, that's what it does, it isn't ominous nor is it in need of replacing, and the previous plumber may have been a little green behind the ears and so that isn't a reason for me to pay their fee for the visit and the city had my water turned back on in under an hour.
Now, in order to relax I've brought some water and my laptop and my blackberry out here to the sunny backyard and I'm sitting under the umbrella, feet up on another chair pulled close, a light breeze stirring the leaves on the trees and I wish I could hear them but the hearing aids will bring the barking dogs and lawnmowers and the squeal of the train and all the city traffic and instead I'll just try to find an hour or two of contentment inside my muted little garden oasis.
Soon Ben will be home and I can share this latest offering to the writing gods with him and he will share some of his news with me and we'll lock the doors and retire once again to the tiny rituals that bring so much unexpected peace so suddenly. Kind of like finding a feather on a bed of nails and imagining where that feather is as a softer part of impossible situation. It will do for now, anyway.
