It is a beautiful clear day, clear enough that I am spending the late afternoon with my laptop, my youngest and my dog on the back deck of my house, enjoying a chilly breeze and my alabaster legs are making their spring debut. I am further scandalizing the neighbors by wearing the backless shirt, so the dragon tat is on display, no doubt scaring the Girl Scout leader who interrupted my knitting earlier with an invite to the PTA meeting as well as the suburban lesbians we call neighbors. They are actually awesome, the best neighbors we have had, but there is the shock value which I did not know we possessed until they put up a tall privacy fence only across the back of their property so as to not have to look at me or my progeny, or maybe it is my inert drunken husband, St Tim of the Pub. I dunno. Or it could be my cultivated approach to gardening last year, which was let it all come up and see what grows there. This year I vow to do better, and without anyone else making my schedule, I think I may be able to pull it off.
So anyway, back to the idea of hope. It is the thing with wings. Yeah, I did the obligatory sophomore project on Dickinson, we've established that. Unfortunately, the wings are kinda manic and fly more like a drunken sailor. Sailors. you say, pilot ships, not planes. I say, my point exactly.
So I spent the day hatching plans to rid my home office of the clinical and bring life and thought and organic feeling back into it. LITERATURE rather than life care plans. And all the bureaucratic crap that goes with it. Only planning however, not doing. Never lifted a finger. And maybe that's why I am out on the deck overlooking the backyard, a freshly mown lawn yet overgrown flower and vegetable beds.
It's time to reclaim my voice. No one can take it. No one took it. I just have to find it. Underneath the crap. And it's all mine. The voice as well as the crap.
Until tomorrow. Thanks for reading.