I have plans.
I’m going to sit out in the garden and be for a bit.
I’m going to take some deep breaths,
let the scent of the Thai lime wash gently over my tongue,
sit still enough so that the black cockatoos who’ve been whirling and screeching overhead
might perch somewhere close
so I can watch them bicker.
I’m going to let the world come to me today
in all its joy and wonder.
Then I’m going to come inside, write something worthwhile
and cook something delicious.
Because the thing they say about plans is…
Umm.. I’ve forgotten.
Somebody somewhere said something super smart
about how plans don’t ever turn out right.
And there’s every chance that I’ll walk into the back yard,
trip over the hose I left there yesterday,
discover the scent of unchanged cat litter tickling my nostrils,
decide i need a coffee,
debate with myself over whether it’s time yet,
adjudicate that it’s not, and plant myself grumpily at the outdoor table,
flick away an errant spider,
notice some weeds out of the corner of my eye and start pulling them out at random.
guess at the source of my headache
then realise it’s the noise of the station works down the road
realise that noise has driven far away any vaguely intelligent birdlife.
Then I’ll stomp back inside,
make the coffee
and throw together a sandwich with stale bread, cheese and a suspicious pickle.
And that’ll be ok.
This day is not all days.
This time will pass.
This plan was not the one plan that was going to make it all better.
Grumpy and cheerful,
Even in a time of suspicious pickles
I can choose to love my neighbour as myself.
I can choose to love myself as my neighbour.
I can give thanks to God for this weird stale sandwich,
And I’ll be fine.