Last week: I drive onto my property, finally beginning to take shape as a home, and am eager to let my carpenter in the back door. Then I spy the lily, this lady of the night, which until now has only bloomed in my absence. Excited, I leap from my truck, forgetting my new cell phone is tucked in my lap. It careens to the ground, I snatch it up with one hand and, with the other, shove the truck door to close it. I watch in horror as the cell phone re-emerges, the truck door comes home, and the two collide in a crunching embrace.
This week: I receive an email from the woman who’s contracted to buy my current home, informing me with a fumbling apology and no satisfactory details, that she is re-nigging on our deal. The sale is no longer. For a month I have been pushing beyond my limits to meet our deadline, and I have turned other buyers away. I am knotted with frustration and fatigue.
This evening: I sit down to write, and I write and I write, and with this creative endeavor, the knots in my world slip loose. Letting me know the truth, which is this: It is the lilies, the fish, the frogs in my tiny pond, the cloud formations in the sky this afternoon, the trees swaying in the wind and light rain as I drove home—these are the things that make my world.
All else is stuff. My cell phone (too expensive right now to replace), sports a sadly and badly shattered screen, but beyond all reason, still works. And as to the sale of my house? I know it will happen in time. And the lilies will bloom and the fish will swim and the wind and rain and sun will come. And all will be okay.