When I had my tiny house built, I envisioned my eating table dropping down from the exterior wall perpendicular to the kitchen. This would allow for two persons to enjoy a meal with adequate room for a chair on each long side. But the builder did not realize what I wanted, and put the large window in the exact spot where the table was to be attached.
Instead, then, my lovely live-edge cherry table drops from a cabinet and slides out into the room parallel with the kitchen. This unsatisfactory arrangement necessitated the construction of a bench from the last good board of the hundred-year old wood from the Holmes house. I like the bench, but it’s hard to navigate around the table, over the stairs, and onto the bench. It’s rarely used. Instead, company sits on a small chair at the short end of the table. For my daily meals, I face the window with my back to the room.
Tonight I turned the tables on myself. From the bench, with the front door open, I listened to the sounds of the park as I skimmed through social media. I studied the accumulation of clutter on my counter; the dangling curtain in the guest sleeping loft; and the cobwebs on the ceiling. I sipped cool water and reflected on my day.
Later, I saw a post from the person whom I have come to regard, with a fair degree of sorrow, as one of the few people in the world who genuinely loathe me. The post had me as its subject and a markedly unpleasant inference. But as I watched, it disappeared. Maybe the person thought better of the comment. I sighed and turned away from the computer. I could have been upset, but I let it go.
Darkness has fallen now; and soon, I shall wash a few dishes and settle for the night. I’m not much for bedtime prayers, but I have some guardian angels to thank; and one or two whom I want to dispatch to watch over President Carter, my son, and some friends whom I know are struggling. I’ll ask a special, sweet cherub to find the person who seems to despise me and soothe that person’s soul. Angels abound; I can spare a few.
It’s the eleventh day of the seventy-first month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.