After last night’s storm and restless sleep, I pad around the house convinced that nothing will go right today.  That sentiment has dogged me for more than two years but this morning it hovers in the air like the stale smell of old grease.

The dog disdains the yard and I speak outloud, assuring her that I’ve hired a company to come and mow.  If it ever stops raining, I say, and she looks at me with something that I cannot understand.  Another soul disappointed in my management of life, I suppose.  She trots past me and settles on the wooden floor in the living room with another glance backwards.  I shake my head.

I think about the day’s list of tasks.  I mull over whether or not to go into one or the other of my offices.  I think of the pile of laundry, and ponder what client work could be done from home while the big washer and dryer in the basement tackle the mound.  The dog walks around in circles and settles in the kitchen, avoiding my glance.  I suspect she’s wondering when I’ll get out of here and leave her to go and commune among the crows which share her food.

As I watch the coffee drip into the carafe, the words “failure” and “surrender” invade my mind.  I’ve been told so often that I have failed, not always with that word but equally unmistakably.  And then there are those who admit to failing me, when what I suspect they mean is that they just tired of me and the effort required to tolerate my idiosyncrasies.  I hear their voices in my head; see words march across the page.  I think, How easy it is for us to say we failed, when what we mean is, we quit trying.

The coffee finishes and I pour a cup, spilling it on the counter, sighing, lifting the mug from the mess.  Great, I think.  On the radio someone blares vitriol into my home and I feel myself wince.  Oh good grief, who cares?   I leave the kitchen and the voices follow me, insisting on their importance, heckling me, demanding my attention.  I ignore their demands.

I go out onto the porch followed by a relentless cloud of gloom.  The cool air hits me.  I contemplate going back for a sweater to shrug over my pajamas.  But then I see the splendor of the morning light dancing on my plants and I stay.

The fog surrounding me dissipates as I sit among my flowers, willing to try again, willing to consider the possibility of success.  I might not concede anything but for a brief spell, I can at least put aside my grief while the sun caresses the loveliness around me.

It’s the tenth day of the twenty-ninth month of My Year Without Complaining. I’ve gotten the complaints out of the way.  I realize that I do not live complaint-free; but I have at least attained a state in which I know that what I am trying to achieve will change me for the better.  I’m no longer trying to live complaint-free as some sort of experiment but to save myself.  I feel as though the year has just begun, even though I’ve been doing this for twenty-nine months.  I’ve nearly given up so many times, but I’m still trying.  Because of marigolds.

Life continues.