I am sitting inside right now, a light drizzle of rain trickles down the window panes. A song thrush sits on the sycamore tree by the side of the house and I can hear his trilling, whooping, whistling, sing-song changeable voice. It’s a grey day. I sometimes feel comforted by grey days. It’s like being wrapped up in a soothing fluffy quilt or silver cotton candy. Grey days are quieter outside and so quieter inside. The stillness outside tames my mind to stillness within. Though they may incline me to introspection, I like grey drizzle days.
I have been, as usual, trying to work myself out. This constant trying to make myself better, to find clarity, to improve myself, is taking its toll. Why can’t I just accept the strange uncertain wayward person I am? I search for surety almost every minute of the day, it is no wonder the days slip like sand through my fingers. There is nothing certain, it all just trickles through and falls to the ground.
My neighbour’s clematis is blooming. I can see it through the window. Hundreds of pale pink flowers nod gently with the falling raindrops. Of course, they don’t question themselves… they just are. A breeze sweeps past and they nod vigorously, but still they are what they are just the same. They drop a petal or a leaf or two without tears.
It is easy to write when you are solving a problem. You write a list, state your version of the solution and there we go. Yet on this incredible Internet of ours every problem has been solved every solution written and rewritten, and still we are no more certain of ourselves or our lives. Still we search for answers and for certainty where there is none to be found.
Being okay with that is hard. Living with the shifting sands beneath our feet, the variable weather patterns, the falling leaves, and the erratic and inconstant call of the song thrush and being okay with all that is maybe the hardest lesson of all.