It is. It is small, this life, this life of mine. And sometimes, well mostly these days, I am happy for it to be so. It is enough. Dealing with the day to day business of my head is enough. And all the work that waits to be made. And the work too, is small. Today it is down to stitches. Tiny, small stitches that I have to unpick.
I put the coffee grounds we’d picked up on our trip to Bath under the sweet peas and geraniums, removing some of the weeds that have gathered there. I was nice to get the warmth soil under my nails. It was a connection, a slow thing that gave me a frisson of joy. And the coffee, warmed by the air smells gorgeous. And seems to be keeping the flies at bay.
There was a wasp. Yesterday as I sat outside reading, a wasp kept landing on me. Perhaps it smelt the coconut body butter I’d put on that morning. I tried to keep still and let it sniff and land and buzz. As I child I would’ve screamed or ran. Now I can let it be. Though I wouldn’t want it to sting. I let it be and watch with wonder that such a creature wants to engage with me. Does it think me a flower or a piece of fruit? What sense does it make of me? No threat, clearly.
The sun may come. I hope it does.
I read the letter and was thrown by a description of a 58 year old lady before realising that they were describing me. So curt. Agh. I’m glad to be out of it.
