A couple of layers of debris have been pulled from the surfaces around me and shoved into drawers and cupboards.  I think better in less clutter.  I open mail, throw away the tattered envelopes, calculate the utility bills, unload the dishwasher.  The dog trots around the house, ignited by my lightened mood.  I chuckle under my breath at the jokes on the radio, even the lame ones about the looming election. It’s a lovely Sunday morning.  It’s early yet but so far, I’m feeling fine.

I skim my past blog entries, reading their titles and a line here or there.  I’m caught by the recurring themes.  Let go of the past.  Forgive.  Move forward.  Empathize.  I’m tired of voicing words in the feeble hope that my heart will engage.  I shake my head and urge myself to stop complaining.  I laugh again, outloud this time, a long, honey-throated burst that reminds me of my mother.  The dog turns her head, stares, then trots into the kitchen.  She wants to be fed.

I step outside to get her dish and look around me.  The neighbors take such good care of their yard.   My own flower bed has grown wild again.  In its midst, the female holly bush stands brown and lifeless.   I stare at the dead female, flanked by the overgrown male which flourishes on the end of the peninsula. The male’s  lush branches stretch towards the sun, throwing a broad shadow over the bare limbs of its mate.  I choke back a sudden rise of acrid bile.  I set the dog’s water dish down. With my ever-present cell phone, I snap a few pictures.   Then I go inside to start the day in earnest.

It’s the second day of the thirty-fourth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

Scott and George’s little oasis, to the north of my yard.