I moved myself and my writing paraphernalia to the kitchen table, so I could watch the rain.
It rained so mightily you could not see the neighbor’s house. The storm was an opaque white blur of falling wet. Big, heavy drops raced and jockeyed. And it was loud. The clouds released a tumult, pounding the deck, the furniture and the whole world.
The rain swallowed everything, including my thoughts. I did no work. My words were swept away. There I sat helpless to rescue my story or the drowning ivy.
The gloom outside was a magnet. A drenched, drowning magnet with nowhere else to cling, it amassed and assembled rivers and puddles of flooded intentions.
Where do the songbirds go when it rains?
The robin roosts, impatient for the worst of the storm to pass, so she can hunt for floating worms and swollen grubs. Mourning doves, never shy at the all you can eat buffet, still waddle out just after the heaviest rain moves through. Finches, nearly motionless in the maple branches, try to conserve warmth and energy with a daydream of sunrises bringing sunflower and thistle seed among a garden of marigolds and zinnias.
At least that is what I imagine. The songbirds and I pay witness to a reverie of delayed ambition…just until the sun shines.
A thin red thread zig zaggy hangs from the hem of your favorite skirt or cuff of your best blazer. You are careful, But the whole garment starts to unravel. You bring the skirt to a seamstress or the blazer to a tailor. They are busy. So many skirts and blazers to repair. You must wait.
When you do get to pick up your favorite skirt, from afar it looks perfect. Just like new. You try on your best blazer. Just visiting an old friend. Maybe the thread color doesn’t quite match. Maybe you notice a tiny pucker or pull. That favorite skirt or best blazer is not like new. It is not as perfect as you thought.
You can’t remember if the skirt was ever that great. You can’t remember if the sleeves of the blazer were always a tad long. Maybe you imagined your favorites. Maybe you didn’t. Maybe the skirt was the right length. Just below the knees. Maybe the blazer was the perfect fit. Across the shoulders. Maybe you are over thinking the whole zig zaggy thread problem.
Wear the skirt. After all, you are told, this was an expert seamstress. Wear the blazer. After all, you are told, this was the best tailor in the city.
You realize you may never feel exactly the same again about your favorite skirt or best blazer. But this is what you have to work with. A thin red thread hanging off a hem.