You are currently browsing the tag archive for the ‘Anger’ tag.

Despair came in yesterday and swallowed me whole. Right when you think things are flowing and dancing, a relationship can trip over itself, both feet tangled in vines and roots that lurk underground. Head and hands are swept up like a kite in the world of dreams and the swirly unconscious. It can tear a body in two.

A door got slammed. Tears fell from tired eyes. Words spilled from angry jaws. Where did that stuff come from? I thought it was gathered and bagged and tossed in the trash years ago. And now here it is, a rash that never went away, a pain that’s as fresh as a daisy.

Today I remember that, just as despair arrives in surprise, so do love and peace and joy. Two weeks ago the peace lily, a neglected resident in my home for several years, presented this perfect white-edged oval. Poorly tended by me, the lily had never managed to unfurl itself, put on a show. Yet there it was, nourished by roots underground, plucky enough to grab hold of a kite and pull itself up.

And so it is. This life is a dance of despair, a trip of finding the roots, pulling on kites, a surprise of love and peace and joy.


Advertisements

Today I had hoped to finish several projects, to muscle my way through the day. Only some of that work was accomplished. What mattered most happened in a speck of time and can’t be measured with a ruler.

This afternoon I spread myself too thin—working on a small carpentry project, making a squash and onion casserole, painting a door jam, making blueberry muffins, preparing to wash the back deck, and rearranging the stacks of paperwork on my dining room table. Having my mind on too much at once, I bumped into something on my kitchen counter that bumped into a plastic tub piled high with vegetable scraps for my compost.

The tub took a dive and, onto some of my painting supplies, carpentry tools, and the floor went slivers from the squash, skins from the onion, red apple peelings from breakfast, innards from the green peppers I put on my pizza last night, and avacado skin from the guacamole I’d made the day before.

For a moment, I started to rise up, to let fly a curse word or two. Quick tempered, accustomed to storming and stewing, I stopped. As if a tiny cog in the machinery of my madness had broken. I managed to be still in my mind and quiet in my body, picking up the scraps before the dog discovered the mess.

It was a tiny cog of unknown dimensions, its absence cause for quiet jubilation.

We celebrate what we can.

Ellen Hamilton

Advertisements