thank the thunder for agreeing

The rain that came coldly on Pascha has not passed.

Day after day the sky is gray as wet newsprint. Thunder breaks abruptly—at mid-morning or the middle of the night—and reminds me of paschal bells: pouring as much from the sky as from me. As if I participate. As if we, the displaced electrons in the clouds and myself, were in agreement.

There has been a lot to think about lately. I got fed up with all the thinking by Saturday afternoon and added a courage to my kitchen door with the help of masking tape. I could use more of it.

Thursday I had a great meeting (er, yes) with my therapist. But sometimes going to therapy is like trying to get the big suitcase out from the back of the closet, in the process out comes the unrolled sleeping bag, the overflowing sewing kit, two pairs of boots I should either throw out or get repaired, three knapsacks (why do I need three?), the beaded purse from my high school prom, a coat that's fallen off its hanger, a frame I need to fix, an unidentifiable white plastic knob-thingy that looks familiar which I long to throw away but can't (I'm sure the iron or the toaster or the food processor will reclaim it soon). I just wanted the big suitcase and now all this mess is on the floor.

So you get out masking tape and write c o u r a g e on the door and begin with the coat (being the easiest). And thank the thunder for agreeing with you when most the stuff is still on the floor when you wake up in the morning.