Still, there is the tiniest hint of something yellow along that top-most hourly view. Looks like maybe some clearing this afternoon, before returning us to rain, rain, rain. No, the weather is not where we find the small satisfactions of life, not in this season.
Not unless I can sit still, with nothing pending, nothing naggingly undone and waiting. Not even a book to read. Just still, someplace where I can see the rain streaking down to grey the view around me, hear the rain spattering rhythmically against a roof, leaves, water, and smell the rain with its steel-deep sharp scent of cleanness. Then rain is soul-balm in a busy world.
Today, however, is not that day. Today is another busy day, and there are things waiting naggingly undone and more things coming that will also need doing. Tasks, like rain, spatter rhythmically against my calendar, to-do list, Evernote, and brain.
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
- Robert Frost, Birches
"Indeed," he sighs, "...indeed."
Today's full commute playlist:
- Cake: Where Would I Be
- Charles Lloyd: Lady Day
- Belle and Sebastian: Consuelo Leaving
- Wilco: Leave Me (Like You Found Me)
- Posted via Hermes.
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