It is a lovely gray morning. Cool air coming through the screen door and the birds are chirping away. My loquat tree is heavily laden with green fruit that will soon ripen into tart little golden orbs, a metaphor for my life right now. The heavy burden on my branches is soon to be a bountiful harvest, but the rain must come to wash away the detritus and nourish the fruit.
Today I mainline British mysteries on Roku as I try to organize a life that feels like it is splitting at the seams. My monkey mind swings from the vine of one thought to the vine of the next and I am all over the place, but never actually arriving at my destination. Lists are made when I think of what I think I need to do, then I start another list and then another, but very few things are being crossed off, and my lists continue to grow. I am scattered about like my thoughts. Raking up my to do lists in vain while they swirl around me like windblown piles of leaves.
In spite of all of the clutter in my mind and in my house, I see an end to the disarray. A gift bequeathed, but not deserved, is on the horizon. The relief the gift brings is tempered by the guilt that a survivor feels when they would decline rather than pay the price of an incomplete life.
I wish it would rain.
