A morning of weeding in the garden, clipping clean whites to the clothesline to dry, and grinding corn for tonight's homemade cornbread made me feel alive, productive, sure of myself.
But the beautiful morning sun is now all clouds. The laundry hanging on the line no longer looks like some great artist's portrayal of Tuscany or Provence. I've pulled on a long-sleeve shirt to cope with the chill in the air.
This afternoon I find myself feeling lost, feeling that I am in some world other than the one I was planning on.
I have been reading a novel that has affected me profoundly. It is an interesting book, well-enough written, but certainly not high literature. Nonetheless, it has somehow wrung so much out of me that I find myself in tears, afraid.
Finally I put the book down, with only about 100 pages until the end.
I don't know whether I should read on, hoping for some sense of resolution that will allow me to get past the place I am now, or return the book to the library and go read some cozy mystery.
It is time for a pot of tea.