What Looms Too Large

02979381102462b396cda16f020bb23cI can’t shake the feeling that these last lunar eclipses took no prisoners. I could not reel myself in and no one around me seemed able to curtail their worst impulses, either. Not to mention all the losses over the last few days–2016’s death toll was already too long–and the fact that nothing feels settled. My kitchen is a mess, my to-do list is dauntingly long, my future feels fuzzy, my empty bed looms too large, and these gorgeous caftans I keep collecting (I found another great one on my trip to the Cape) may be dissolving the last vestiges of my girlhood. Phife Dawg’s passing did a number on it, too; rare were the ’90s parties at which we, still young, still pretty, didn’t dance to his silver-tongued, high-low rhymes. Granted, I’ve found myself in this maelstrom a disturbing number of times recently, so I’ll do what’s become standard practice when no lemonade can be made of such strange and sour fruit. I’ll fling open the windows, roll up my sleeves, and begin to scrub. Not everything can be solved by a sink full of warm suds, but at least order can emerge.

"All, everything I understand, I understand only because I love."
― Leo Tolstoy