Being thrown in at the deep, the past couple of weeks have been running on, in a non-stop mode. Hassles of keeping our professional security intact, resulted in splitting up of the adult part of the family unit. Adding to them is the current system of “online-schools” ( with plenty of home-schooling, the latter being a necessity); work from home, lack of help due to curbs on travel, unexpected setbacks and expenses; things aren’t really looking good. Then again, this holds true for most of us. When things are few and far between, the choices waver between being in limbo or just picking up the pieces and find a way through.
“The first step towards getting somewhere is to decide you’re not going to stay where you are.” J.P.Morgan
Truth is no day is consistent. Some days one gets to breathe a bit or an optimistic turn to look at the bright side of life; whereas other days just become a drag. For those with family, we may wish to be alone at times. For those of us staying alone for now, we wish our near and dear ones were at hand. The mind is in a constant of conflict, not just from emotions but also random thoughts which may plague one at the odd times of the day. Restlessness becomes a part and parcel of the self.
“For a tree to become tall it must grow tough roots among the rocks.” Friedrich Nietzsche
Change is there. Whichever way one looks at it, things will never go back to the old norm. Uncertainty fuels the inner restlessness, upsets the mental balance and this cycle just goes on. Over the past few weeks, being stationed on the porch way before the cockcrow began a new routine. Watching the rays chase away the dark of the night, gives one the hope of another try, a different way to handle each situation and look for any missed chances or overlooked possibilities. If it rains, an eye still is kept for the warmth of the light. For now, that alone is sufficient to chase away the chill within. After all, life has to go on.
BY EDITH SITWELL
Houses red as flower of bean,
Flickering leaves and shadows lean!
Pantalone, like a parrot,
Sat and grumbled in the garret—
Sat and growled and grumbled till
Moon upon the window-sill
Like a red geranium
Scented his bald cranium.
Said Brighella, meaning well:
“Pack your box and—go to Hell!
Heat will cure your rheumatism!” . . .
Silence crowned this optimism—
Not a sound and not a wail:
But the fire (lush leafy vales)
Watched the angry feathers fly.
Pantalone ’gan to cry—
Could not, would not, pack his box!
Shadows (curtseying hens and cocks)
Pecking in the attic gloom
Tried to smother his tail-plume . . .
Till a cockscomb candle-flame
Crowing loudly, died: Dawn came.