Susan LaffertyPicking up a pen. And opening my notebook to a fresh page. I keep writing.
Remembering times I’ve jotted down thoughts in Southeast Asia’s tropical humidity. Hands sticking to the paper. Ink smudging along the way.
Or cities on the subcontinent where I’ve huddled in a blanket. At my desk. On mornings when tile floors and no heat mean cold seeps into the bones.
Regardless, I keep writing.
Leaves crunch beneath my feet. Cold front moved in. So the air is chilled. Still.
Inside I’m scattered.
Numb.
Not sure how to process what’s happening. The unexpected hard.
“In everything give thanks”? How?
Paying attention makes a difference.
I think about this while watering the brown, straggly plant in our front yard. The one that missed automatic sprinkler showers.
My failure to notice is part of the issue. Properly caring for plants is not my wheelhouse.
In the tropics, where I was raised? Plants grew green year round. Rain fell in abundance. And planting seeds for science projects yielded quick results. Green shoots before the week was out. Sometimes overnight.
This sad-looking specimen tells another story.
