The country road is still in the late afternoon, misty skies and droplets of rain hanging light in the air, everything smells of warm mulch, of summer. It's warmer than my morning in the attic hinted. My breathing is heavy, my body tired from disuse, he writes to say push your fingers into the soil, and I know just what he means. Connect with something organic, remember what is real.
I'm dragging myself out of the hole, painstakingly inching my way out from six feet under, trying to lean on every shaking step like a trust fall, trying to believe the sun when it rises. Perhaps life is just one long series of getting back up again after you've been knocked down. You can't say if that's exhausting or encouraging.
Illness rages in your spine. It has made a home here, is determined to stay.
But I saw flowers in bloom at the side of the road today, saw branches bursting with life and itching to get out, my lungs struggled but they kept breathing, deep big breaths of all that still remains in the world and what choice do I have but to join them?
What choice do I have but to burst, too?
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