It’s not the jasmine. Or not only the jasmine. The thing I love best is trying to kill me. And by that I mean nature. Nature is trying to kill me by stifling me with green pollen. I have never ever had allergies so bad.
How can she on the same day show me seven yellow crowned night herons nesting in live oaks and a small elusive screech owl that flies like a cloud, yet at the same time try to kill me? Then again, nature does ever so benevolently plot to kill us all. The herons eat the frogs, the owls hunt the cute little mice, the eagles get the owls, and so on and so forth, until decades from now we are all composting peacefully in the embrace of roots and earth and moss. I get it, it’s a beautiful plan, but my time has not come. Nature, I will not die in the spring of 2023 of seasonal allergies. I will not! I have things to do and a book to publish. So kindly, for now, back off!
Seriously the thought of my upcoming novel, and whatever small progress I made on editing it, helped keep things in perspective today while I was sneezing and feeling rather blah. I also somehow got myself motivated to do a lot of cleaning – which always helps with everything, including convincing nature that I am not yet ready for my demise.
