Tiny Troubles

This morning I lost my temper because I couldn’t bend over to retrieve a pair of shoes.  When I finally got them out, I started jerking baskets and boxes from the cubbies and casting them to one side.  Eventually a little pile accumulated on the square of rug in front of my miniscule closet.  Then I became frantic over a brooch that I wanted to wear.  I pulled all the sweaters out of the basket under my bed.  I finally found the missing pin and went off to work in a disgusted cloud, leaving the mess behind me.

That’s never a good thing in a 200 square-foot house.  As I started the car, I told myself that I’d straighten the whole lot after work.   A good chance at a fresh organizational plan, I muttered.  You’ve got too much stuff anyway, you know.  I scolded myself all the way off the levee, over the bridge, and into town.

Of course, I came home exhausted and practically fell asleep over dinner.  I promised. . . I will just sit down for a minute.   An hour later, I woke to the ping of a message coming through.  My head had fallen sideways against the back of the love seat.  I’m not as young as I used to be.

Now dishes beg to be washed.  Clothes that dried on the ladder rack need to be folded and stowed.  The heap of shoes and whatnot from the morning’s tantrum sits unmoved on the rug.

A scroll through the evening’s news reminds me of the appallingly inconsequential nature of my tiny life.  The little cupboards might offend me but the four walls keep me secure from the night.  I’m not an infant left with a half-dozen other forlorn children on the southern border.  I’ve not been abandoned by my Party for calling out the naked Emperor.  I have no need to stand in an ICU waiting room while my beloved draws a jagged mechanical breath.  I don’t live in  one of the nations still ravaged by this damned pandemic.  People are not dying around me.

Hello.  How are you?  I’m fine.  I’m just fine.  A little ragged around the edges, but blessed and cherished by a host of angels.  And you?

It’s the eleventh day of the eighty-ninth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

My Pacific.


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