not patient

I am not patient. I was looking through a book of Mary Oliver poems and have moved out of the sun to the table, and I'm having my customary lunch of a piece of toast with tomatoes and olive oil and sea salt and the it's January the 20th and tomorrow is the inauguration of President Obama and I realize that it's been nearly 19 months since I thought my life was over. And yet, here I am on January the 20th, and the sun is shining and the dogs are blinking in its warmth and I'm still here. The deck is a little worse for wear -- it's not a good sign when you realize that the gnarly piece of wood the puppy is chewing on is in fact rotten deckwood -- and the trees have been trimmed. And a whole tree, a silver dollar eucalyptus, has been taken out so that the whole of Lookout Mountain is lit up so the trees on it look like little pieces of lichen from a child's diorama. And the chairs are covered in shiny bright white, impractical perhaps, but jolly and light.  Into this brightness and the blue skies, there is hope. Something I couldn't even contemplate a year ago. There is brightness and hope and a sense that things get better. If you are patient, things get better, every day, just a little bit.