The thunder grows faster and fiercer each time. The gentle warm breeze can change to a föhn wind in the blink of an eye. The sudden snap of electricity in the air and lightning begins to crack and pop seemingly from nowhere, and you just cant tell where it will fall.
And then it just goes bang.
Today I lost my pen.
Not the most world shattering event I’ll grant you, but it was a moment.
At first when a storm starts its almost imperceptible. The rolling quiet thunder stretching on on and into the distance for what seems like minutes at a time , you have to arch you ear to to catch its start and end. Listening to the slow build not quite knowing when it will reach is peak , waiting for it to diminish to silence. Counting the seconds until it returns . Sometimes it will just fade away in the distance, becalmed until the next weather front rolls in.
But the storm can also build.
Instead of the diminishing returns of a receding bank of cloud , it can grow. The gaps between silence decrease. The thunder comes faster and fiercer each time. The gentle warm breeze can change to a föhn wind in the blink of an eye. The sudden snap of electricity in the air and lightning begins to crack and pop seemingly from nowhere, and you just cant tell where it will fall.
And then it just goes bang.
Rummaging through the detritus that has consumed my dining table looking for something that I know is there somewhere. Sure, there were other writing implements among the debris, along with balls of string, place mats, copious notebooks, a thermometer, piles of fabric, crossword books, and a bag of dog treats among a sea of distraction accumulated over the course of a week or so while I attempted to distance my self from the all too familiar far off rumble of an oncoming storm. But I couldn’t find my pen. The table takes the form of a modern art piece strewn as it is with a random collection of seemingly unconnected objects that tell a story only within the mind of the artist. Objects taken up with enthusiasm and the hope of entertainment or self betterment, all too soon discarded as they prove unsuitable to satisfy my current whim. And it builds and builds and when I look at it I see so many things started and not finished, so much enthusiasm reduced to a collection of sighs. And I still cant find my damn pen.
The last few days have been hard.
And I know. I really DO know. I know how privileged I am to be comfortable right now. I KNOW.
Every time I get frustrated, or feel lonely, or feel inconvenienced, I remind myself. Every time I catch myself being bored, every time I laugh too much, every time I feel tired of being the house cheerleader, the glee club rallying the spirits of the single other inhabitant of Camp Covid, I remind myself. I remind myself to be grateful. I remind myself how fortunate I am , because I am. I know I am.
The thunder has started to rumble. The sky has begun to swirl.
I get cross with myself for how many times I have to remind myself. I shouldn’t be letting petty niggles get under my skin, I shouldn’t be snapping at the teenager for a minor infraction or inaction. I should be more patient. Its just as weird for them as it is for you. A lot of people have it MUCH harder than me. I Know. Stop feeling like that. Be grateful. i am . i really am. But I’m tired. I’ts been so hot, teenager has been antsy, the dogs are barking all damn night, there’s a mountain of laundry, the table has all but disappeared, it STILL hasn’t rained. I miss my husband so damn much, NO don’t think about that. Push it down. Teenager is sad, snap out of this they need you, smile, reassure, ride out the menopausal hot flush, its just sweat, a lot of sweat and rage, it will be over soon, be grateful, be kind, but its so damn hot and the house looks like dusty soup, you should be cleaning, you should be grateful. I KNOW. Think of others, be a helper, do something, do anything, I don’t know what to make for dinner, I need to write a shopping list but I cant find my f****** PEN!
And then I just went bang.
The clouds burst open and the rain fell, and fell hard. An unstoppable torrent filled with anger and rage and guilt and self pity and loathing. A deluge of frustration and longing that eventually faded to a trickle of sadness then petered out with a whimper of exhaustion. In the aftermath of the storm, with the pressure at last dissipated, the sun struggles out from behind the clouds, there is a freshness in the air. A newness. A readiness to begin again. A deep breath.
As my eyes come back into focus, and my mind sweeps away the debris left in the wake of the sudden squall , there right next to the toilet roll tubes and the tape measure is my pen. Just where it had been all along. And I feel once again how fortunate I am. And I know. I know once again that Its OK not to be OK all the time. I know its OK to be grumpy once in a while, I know its OK to have a wobble. I know that the storm has passed.
HillyWilly.

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