The Promise of Things Hoped For...

On our living room and bedroom windowsills sit pots of paperwhites. I planted them when my parents were here and in just two short weeks they have gone from bulbs to six-eight inch high plants, each with a bud. And in a short amount of time, the buds will turn into beautiful white flowers, at least that is the promise. And I trust in that promise.

This post should go somewhere a lot more profound after that beginning but where it's going is here... I have not been feeling well this past week. I don't have energy. My big toe hurts. My left arm hurts. My stomach hurts. And I am tired. My house is dirty, horribly reproducing dust bunnies and dirt at an incomprehensible rate, my dirty dishes are multiplying like nobody's business and I just want to curl up in bed and sleep for about twelve hours. And I still have 200 pages to read in my book for Sunday night's book club. There is nothing seriously wrong going on but I feel blah right now.

But... like the paperwhites, I have the promise that eventually my life will burst into bloom. By Sunday (possibly even by tomorrow) our house will be clean, my book club book will be done and the dishes will have been washed and put away (and dirtied again and washed and put away again and...) So all I have to do is wait for a few days (or even 24 hours) and things will be looking up. Until then I'm holding onto the promise...

It's a tricky thing, this thing called Life. The ups, the downs, the blahs and the hope.