It is the time of year when crisp brittle cold sears your nostrils and steals your breath; when the snow crunches under your boots. But it is not that time of year, it is, instead, drizzling cold rain, the snow, a week ago covered in ice, is mostly melted and the driveway, is a drive-puddle. The sky is grey, the snow that remains in heaped piles is black and brown and the world is muddy and cold and damp and all you want to do is curl into a comforter and sleep. Or do nothing. Or weep.
I take a double dose of vitamin D3. I beg the universe for some beauty, some glimmer in this lifetime of hopelessness.
Ugliness. Emptiness. Emotional Drainage. Like a sinus infection, it makes your head feel heavy and painful. And your body which has already betrayed you more times than you can count, drags like it is trying to slog through a deep pool of molasses.
I drive by a muddy farm, on a sandy road, in the drizzling rain and stop to take a picture. The ducks rush to either attack me or greet me. And I call out to the chickens, HI LADIES.
And when my gallon of washer fluid thumps and bangs in the back, I stop and get out to place it more carefully and I can hear the starlings making their beautifully awful noise somewhere in the vicinity of the misted river.
I pour out the soft dough that has risen beautifully on the counter above the roaring dishwasher. I carefully spread the flour on the handcrafted wooden board given me by the ex husband, too big, rarely used, but suited to the task. The dough is workable and easy and well made. A recipe taught to me by my mother, and her also to my daughter. I feel a sense of pleasure at the simple task of rolling it out and spiraling it into the bread pan, and then sprinkling cinnamon sugar on the other half. A pot of chili bubbles on the stove. I feel a sense of worthiness at this small accomplishment.
I think on a text that came to me in the dark as I read, feeling the hard edge of it, grateful that my grand daughter was not there to see me upset. Grateful too of her requests and our ritual of listening to chants as we lie down to sleep before her mother gets to my home. I respond with hurt and anger.
But I guess I deserve its brutal arrow into my heart. I have worked to soften my heart, to make it flexible, nourishing and open, it is so crusted and scarred. I am not perfect. I know this must be news. I say things sometimes that are ignorant, without having an ignorant heart. Do things sometimes that later I regret. I have not spent my life keeping up on the lastest terminology, or frozen in my understanding until heated words thaw out the treasure of my love.
But I am not mean spirited, nor do I wish to be cold, hard or ignorant.
I am so sorry, please forgive me, thank you for your forgiveness, I want nothing more than to love you.