She sometimes felt as if all she did in her life was move the boxes around from place to place. The problems that built up were appropriately stored in the problems compartment but what she would do when that got full up she wasn’t sure. Like a forest fire that begins with the yellow lick of flame and can’t be contained her life felt out of control.
Challenges she could accept, challenges she could deal with, it was the unexpected surprises she didn’t relish.
Telling herself she was luckier than some was no help since she actually had to live her life.

The problem with life she thought was its refusal to follow where she thought its path should lead. It was not smooth and pretty and held in place in regimented rows. Rather it was messy and tempestuous and wonderful.

And so what if she could not possibly hope to juggle all its pieces? Who could?
And wasn’t that on the whole, the thrill of it?

The trying, the rejoicing, the despairing but then the rest of sleep, the slumber of dreams and the waking to a new day. Which would be unfurled and shaken out like a duvet on the line on a blowy Spring day, and inhabited.

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