Huff. Puff. Huff. Puff. Huff. Puff.
That's the sound of me trying to catch my breath. It's the sound of me coming up for air. It's the sound I make when climbing the stairs, too, because I have woefully set aside my running in favor of other important things, like working my butt off so I can pay my bills and feed my family. Unfortunately, my butt doesn't disappear as quickly with this kind of work as it does with running. That, I fear, will have to wait. While my running partner chugs along (have you registered for the 5K yet, Kim?), I'm left in the dust. In lieu of running, I dream about it. Literally. I've composed an essay in my head about my running dreams, but I haven't stopped my life long enough to write it.
The past month has been eventful. Every moment has been occupied. I've been rising with the sun, but it's been beating me to bed each night. If you've ever seen a candle burned at both ends, you'll know what I look like.
Each morning brings the urgency of getting to the garden. With our wet, cold early spring, not much happened after the initial tilling. Now the herb garden is planted and mulched, the veggie garden is filled with onions, swiss chard seeds (yet to come up), peppers, tomatoes, eggplants, more onions, marigolds, basil and cilantro. The asparagus on which I had given up poked its many heads from the cool earth, only to be snipped off by a gang of marauding goats. Still, it persists and I hope for a bountiful harvest next year.
This seems to fit in with the theme of the month--hope deferred. Seeds that don't want to germinate. Newly placed seedlings that fall to the fate of a hungry goat kid. Threatening letters from government agencies holding my precious world in its fists lest I cough up several months' pay for taxes I owe. A new birthday camera just in time for my computer to crash. The cultivator quits when gardening season begins. Life=challenge. Most days, I'm tired and grumpy and my family takes the brunt. A few moments, like waking up from this afternoon's nap to the sound of birds and little girls singing, looking out my window over the finally green hillsides, turning silvery in the breezes of this spring day, almost make me want to grab my camera and my journal, but I barely have the desire. This home and hillside, this desire of my heart, this fruit of my labor, is only tenuously mine. Any act of God, unavoidable tragedy or certified letter might pull it out from under my bare gardening feet, leaving me on my rump, disillusioned and desolate.
These things have been occupying my mind, and more days than not, I find myself deep in depression. Work takes me from home, home greets me with more work, and never am I completely caught up. Even today, a day off from work outside the home, gives me an opportunity to pursue those things that have been niggling at me every day while I'm away, but my energy is zapped, and curled up in bed is where I'd like to be.
That's hardly anything inspiring to write about, though I do think about jotting down thoughts now and again. Life isn't all that poetic right now.
I need air. I need to resurface and take a deep breath. Something fresh and clean to purify my body and renew my energy.
A bit of hope would help, too.
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