I'll think about it tomorrah
When I was young, my mother often quoted that famous line from Gone With the Wind in which a very tired Scarlett O' Hara says over and over "I'll think about it tomorrah," with her lovely southern accent. As I cried in my bed last night over the loss of my little cabin and the stress of the coming weekend, I shut my eyes tight and said to myself, "I'll think about that tomorrow."
So many times I have shut out the problems for the night in favor of slumber which would make the next day's troubles easier to handle. My mother wisely told us to sleep and it would be better in the morning and it always was.
But today, the daylight brings me little relief as I scrounge for boxes to pack away my little things and figure out which sheets are mine and which were here upon arrival. I sit with my back against the wooden walls and gaze adoringly at the sturdy beams of the ceiling hoping that one day I will find just such another home in which I can reside forever.
"Billy was a train drivin' man..."
An Angus and Julia Stone song sings to me as I cradle my face, and I think of my own train man and his journey north to play and sing with his band in the basements of D.C. I think of the two times last year that he helped me move my bookcase and shoes and trunks, before he even knew I loved him. I think of the marks of wear and tear on the house from my living in it and baking on it's table top. I think of the marks of wear and tear on my skin. New scars, an empty hole where my nose ring used to pierce the skin. Wear and tear on my heart and on my relationship and friendships.
Come and gone, so many times, so many folks. Today, before my non-stop weekend of work begins, I will collect myself. I will sit quietly and be grateful for the first day of spring, for the love and joy and peace I have felt in my home, for the opportunities that lie ahead and the ability to find even more little cabins like this one.
Sanctuary. I've claimed it so many times over the last few months, and I'll claim it again for a while more today and this week before it all comes to a rapid close.
Tomorrah became today as I woke this morning. So, I suppose I shall think about it today....
So many times I have shut out the problems for the night in favor of slumber which would make the next day's troubles easier to handle. My mother wisely told us to sleep and it would be better in the morning and it always was.
But today, the daylight brings me little relief as I scrounge for boxes to pack away my little things and figure out which sheets are mine and which were here upon arrival. I sit with my back against the wooden walls and gaze adoringly at the sturdy beams of the ceiling hoping that one day I will find just such another home in which I can reside forever.
"Billy was a train drivin' man..."
An Angus and Julia Stone song sings to me as I cradle my face, and I think of my own train man and his journey north to play and sing with his band in the basements of D.C. I think of the two times last year that he helped me move my bookcase and shoes and trunks, before he even knew I loved him. I think of the marks of wear and tear on the house from my living in it and baking on it's table top. I think of the marks of wear and tear on my skin. New scars, an empty hole where my nose ring used to pierce the skin. Wear and tear on my heart and on my relationship and friendships.
Come and gone, so many times, so many folks. Today, before my non-stop weekend of work begins, I will collect myself. I will sit quietly and be grateful for the first day of spring, for the love and joy and peace I have felt in my home, for the opportunities that lie ahead and the ability to find even more little cabins like this one.
Sanctuary. I've claimed it so many times over the last few months, and I'll claim it again for a while more today and this week before it all comes to a rapid close.
Tomorrah became today as I woke this morning. So, I suppose I shall think about it today....
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