against the blue of this morning's sky, a squirrel's silhouette tightropes the telephone wire and i begin to write. i mistype that as rite and almost leave it, a perfect truth disguised as mistake. namaste twenty twelve. january 4th. a small day begins.
no leaves block my view. another squirrel's shadow circles the trunk of an oak tree across the street. a small bird drops onto a limb of the hackberry, in perfect time with one last small falling leaf. it is dull out there, and quiet, all faded greens and the gray of a sweatshirt as a student heads off to school. chilly with sunshine, i think, and laugh, thinking chili with sunshine sounds like something i would eat with a spoon and a smile.
true story: the new year began with a broken table leg, said table still upside down on the living room floor, still healing, but ready to be righted. when it broke and i couldn't fix it, when it proved to be beyond my skills and tools and strength, when i could see what needed to be done but couldn't do it, i fell to tears and swearing, though neither helped. there was a moment when i tried to drag the thing through the front door, sick of it, tired of the poorness it represented, but it fought back, wanting to stay - it grew too heavy and one of the good legs caught in the doorway and i just finally stopped and let it be. swept around it and let it be. accepted i would need help. accepted i would have to wait. exhausted, i finally took a nap - skye cat crawled up into the bed with me, laid her head on my shoulder and fell asleep.
a life lesson.
a recap of last year.
sometimes you have no control.
break a leg.