Spring is rising up, gathering itself in masses of leaves, rolling and pitching in the wind, green seas under white cloud. Rain comes and goes, and comes and goes, a spatter on the windshield or the face; sometimes it's surprisingly cold, and others surprisingly warm. Ants have found their way into the house again.
I forget to re-tape the windshield weatherstripping when it's dry, and I can't, when it's wet. So far it's never come off entirely, and no damp seems to have got into the roof yet. But when it comes half-loose on the freeway, it knocks sharply on the roof, or buzzes like an exasperated rattlesnake.
Tears on the table. Just a few. "Dammit, you unlocked me, Dale."
"Sorry," I said. "It's my job, you know."
Only sometimes, though. When I was younger, I might have thought it was always my job (and that's one of many reasons why I shouldn't have become a therapist any younger than I did.) Open them up! Make them vulnerable! Blossom them, whether they want to be blossomed or not!
No. There's a time for flowers to be closed, tight-furled. Everything in its season. Armor isn't always a bad idea: sometimes the world really is trying to kill you.
I did an end-of-month cast-up, yesterday. Money is yet another of those things, long out of control, that I'm finally getting a handle on. It feels good. And yet I long, too, to get away from this punctilious recording and tracking: to get up to the high country and have the wind in my face. Money, like health, is something I attend to in order that I may forget it, which means that even at its best its not really very inspiring.
Bow my head, rest my hands on my lap. Three mindful breaths.
All right. Ready for the day.