May 20

It is morning. Sky is blue and clear. Air is crisp with an unfulfilled promise of rain when I step into it. Birds sing. A breeze blows. Rustling leaves have nothing to do with the wind. Today is a morning of promise. At the potted garden, I look for early signs that the Miracle Gro food I poured into the pots yesterday has yielded a miracle today. It hasn’t. Unless I count the patches of moist soil surrounded by soil that is less dry than it was the day before. I don’t.

At the café, I fill and spill and scatter. I am rushing because I am late. Rushing because birds are close and getting closer. Rushing because I seem to rush when I am not thinking.

Later, I think about joining the morning writing group. I do not know it yet but in a few days I will realize why I have stopped attending. When the clock strikes 5:55 and no one is in the Zoom room, it is lonely. I am lonely there. It is a feeling I do not like. So, lately, to avoid the virtual echo of a silent good morning, I do not go. But because I do not know this now, I am tempted to join but I do not. Instead, I sit at my desk staring out of the window at a rugby ball that is nestled among leaves, held firm by branches. It seems impossible that I cannot grow leaves or berries or edible things and this tree that I do not nurture or clip or trim or water is lush and leaf and flowering berries that feed all manner of guests, and rugby balls.