I stumbled into the kitchen today. I lingered in bed far longer than normal and had to bargain with myself to throw my legs onto the floor and pull myself vertical. Yesterday’s coffee warmed in the microwave as three voters talked with the NPR host about last evening’s political sparring. I didn’t watch the debates, though I scrolled through a few minutes of Twitter feed to see what various pithy folks perceived. Mostly I slouched around the house wondering how to shake the funk that had wrapped its web around me.
I hauled my plate of eggs to the table and settled on a stool, only half-hearing the continued post-mortem. I’m a simple person, I told myself. Maybe I’ll blog about eggs today. Something noncontroversial. The most one could say is ‘scrambled or fried’? And who cares, really? Have it your way. I even snapped a photo of my plate, sitting next to the angel music box which Jeanne Serra gave me.
When I scrolled through the gallery on my phone to send the egg picture to myself, I found a series of pictures that I had taken on a Sunday afternoon in San Francisco. Amidst the pleasant smiles of a Spanish gardener, I found a snapshot which framed a brief second in time when two words collided before my eyes. The sight once more caught my breath and made me look.
My eggs grew cold beside the tepid mug of coffee. My eyes roamed the rooms in which I walk each morning. I grumble about the echoes around me, never seeing the walls which keep the wind from buffeting my shoulders and chafing my tender skin. The table heaped with my unpacked bags from the weekend sits under a solid roof.
The radio continued playing but I did not hear its voice. Instead I squared my shoulders, stood to stretch and get ready for work, and sent a prayer inward, to the divine spark which sustains me. Thank you.
It’s the twenty-seventh day of the thirty-third month of My Year [Still Striving to Live] Without Complaining. Life continues.