The only constant are my prayers. Everything else about the past year has bordered on a shit show. I don’t have one book out of this, I might have three. Though I really only want a testimony.
Depression, family illness, taking in a homeless girl, losing my contracts, anxiety, starting an online business, a first garden, a garden cookbook, helping others by breaking my bread in two, three, fourteen pieces.
I want this to be over. I need this to be over. I will be 57 this year and I can’t imagine not having joy in my corner again. I am used to being on top. I am not used to throwing caravan parties for twenty one year olds and god-forbid two upcoming graduation celebrations.
I am not just feeling sorry for myself, I am feeling sorry for ALL of us. This includes a nation held in suspense by a silent killer. The worst kind. My family is bursting at the seams to move beyond this while also being too in love with one another to make a false move.
Inaugurations spent at home. Zoom meetings that went nowhere. Virtual hugs. Air kisses. Elbow shakes. The shit show that has no immediate curtain call.
Well it had been awhile since I purged my thoughts. I had to. My sadness vessel was getting full again. And the thing worse than surviving this is surviving this in a million shattered pieces.
Soon it will be spring again. Just outside my window there is a garden calling my name. We will grow together.