Morning in Leawood

The weather gods continue to smile on my visit to Kansas City.  Outside the wide window in Jeanne Foster’s kitchen, I see a bit of grey but no ice, no snow, no rain.  A low electric light in a wrought-iron lantern glows from the stone wall.  Spring hovers near this place; birds twitter in the oaks rising above the house.  One of the trees bears a tattered yellow ribbon.  I briefly wonder what death or absence my friend honored with its placement.

In another hour, I will visit children whose custody will be resolved at trial on Tuesday.  My status as their guardian ad litem brings me here this week.  I could have withdrawn, but another appointment would have meant delay in an already dreary case.  I can’t charge for the trip; the cost of it will march on my Schedule C and offset whatever earnings I might have this year to whatever extend Caesar  allows.  I’m technically unemployed and can ill afford these expenses, but I have faith that the universe will reward me, if only in the calm of some inner feeling.

Later today, I will rummage in the storage unit where the remaining bits of my life here await disposal.  I do not look forward to that endeavor.  But for the dropped ball of an inexperienced real estate agent (giving her the wide benefit of doubt which time has allowed), I would have spent the last week packing instead of holding together the house sale.  A frantic forty-eight hours saw every one of my blessed friends madly packing.  I have no idea what awaits me.  Everything had been stored at someone’s house who decided it no longer suited him to keep my possessions, and so Paula and Sheldon once more stepped into the breach and moved them for me.  Today I will scrounge through the boxes to see what I can give away.

I don’t greatly mind this somewhat unpleasant task.  Whether I did or not, it must be done.  Cheerfully suffices as well, or better, than any other approach.

But in the meantime, Jeanne set the coffee and I’ve made eggs.  Outside the light rises.  I sit in a space which all told, surpasses my tiny house by many times over, and I’m marveling at the experience as though I have never lived any way but small.  It’s morning in Leawood, with small songbirds as soundtrack rather than the geese and cranes of the Delta.  I find myself without a care in the world, or, in the least, none to which I have any thought of giving voice.

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

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