Blossoming

I learned a lesson from a tree the other day.

There I was, walking hurridly past, caught up in yet another drama invented by my head on the recurring theme of how my life should be better than it is.

And, as if it were a whomping willow and not the charming little baby apple tree it is, it hit me.

"It'll happen."

I actually stopped mid-stride.

I had actually been pitying the tree as I walked because it is all tied down with ropes and stakes and such, but instead I realized that all this little tree has to do is wait. It is in position, been provided all the tools it needs to survive - no, to thrive. Everything else will just happen.

I grind my mental gears searching for ways to improve my situation and berate myself for wasting time - all for nothing. For all I'm being asked to do, as the tree showed me, is to grow - to take each opportunity offered and keep moving down the path. Right now, all I have to do is wait.

Is there a tree that can help with patience?

WARNING: Whining to follow

I'm Sick.

That's what I get for being the kind soul who stepped up to take care of two babies this weekend. And cleaning their boogery faces.

And since my brain is barely functioning all of my thoughts are playing out (barely) in front of Shel Silverstein.

Sick
by Shel Silverstein

"I cannot go to school today,"
Said little Peggy Ann McKay.
"I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash and purple bumps.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,
I'm going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I've counted sixteen chicken pox
And there's one more--that's seventeen,
And don't you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut--my eyes are blue--
It might be instamatic flu.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I'm sure that my left leg is broke--
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button's caving in,
My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained,
My 'pendix pains each time it rains.
My nose is cold, my toes are numb.
I have a sliver in my thumb.
My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.
My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There is a hole inside my ear.
I have a hangnail, and my heart is--what?
What's that? What's that you say?
You say today is. . .Saturday?
G'bye, I'm going out to play!"

From Shel Silverstein: Poems and Drawings; originally appeared in Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein. Copyright © 2003

Except I never get to the "It's Saturday" part. My head is stuck on a horrible list of maladies that seem to grow bigger and more distressing simply by being named.

And oh boy am I whiny. I am even whiny about the fact I have no one to whine to.
My boss is in the midst of a family crisis, my boyfriend is also sick, and my co-workers are ghosts I see only occassionally.

"Hi! You came to see me for a professional visit? Great, sit down and listen to my tale of woe!"

Though I've tried to contain myself, I did actually greet my first appointment of the day with "I'm grumpy."

Seriously. Tres professional, wouldn't you agree?

Perhaps not. But at least I know her pretty well.

That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it.

But REALLY I am whiny because I have to go to work. There is no room for sick today. Or this week. It is the busiest time of the year and not only do I have to be at the office and hold in my moans and groans, I have to work a double shift and be professional for an extra SIX HOURS. Blech. The two hours I'm taking off in the morning are so not going to cut it. I predict whininess well into the future.

Especially since this double thing will play out again Thursday and one more time the following Tuesday.

Happy Happy Joy Joy.

T'ya. As if.

More like Grumble Grumble mumble mumble.