Toiling with everything and nothing
Faced with simple struggles and mountainous weaknessess, silence seemed easier, not necessarily better. What happens here in our world that is worth writing about, that isn't just another life song?
I've got to begin again.
Where to start?
Right here, in the present.
William is taking a nap after crying hysterically. The washing machine sways the clothes clean, the children are in their treehouse (a platform in a tree) and I hear the thud of George's axe mixed with Amelia and George Wilder voices. Danny and Mittens (the sheep) are watching it all announcing their fascination or disregard along the way. They walk the fence and scratch, leaving their hair whirled around the metal crisscross. The chickens scratch endlessly.
It is warm. The windows are open. The sun sparkles through the glass.
We've been doing spring cleaning in January. The yard looks marvelous. George and the children built a beautiful globe made from old metal that held a barrel together. It is art done amongst the toil.
Toil. A raw sense of the never ending piles and cries and hungry bellies and dirty dishes and clothes and floors and bottoms. Over the last months, it has made me angry and sad and fearful and alone.
This has only led to horrible sadness and more disorder.
Starting the year with confession is rather powerful.