Today was a rough day for living the in-between. I've been reading "A Moveable Feast" by Hemingway, and felt that my transition over the weekend mimicked the transitions of the first few chapters. What started as purely peaceful and serene started to get a little rough around the edges. Or rather, life (in my own and within the novel) was starting to get rough, and with it comes the challenge to not give in to the tempermental fluctutations.
You know things are getting tough when you're trying to sit outside in the sunny Sunday afternoon, birds chirping, Patsy Cline streaming from a neighbor's backyard, the heat of the sun on your cheeks, favorite book in hand-- yet unable to read. Stopping every few sentences, or between paragraphs, and thinking about how to smooth things over and fix the little life quirks that have sprung up. After a bit of arm wrestling, though, if you play your cards right, you get back to where you want to be. Or close enough, for today.
I thought this poem by Walt, "Lingering Last Drops," summed things up nicely for the end of such a day as this.
And whence and why come you?
We know not whence, (was the answer,)
We only know that we drift here with the rest,
That we linger'd and lagg'd but were wafted at last, and
are now here,
To make the passing shower's concluding drops.
-Walt Whitman
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