Next week is Thanksgiving.
I could write about the disgusting commercialism that is trying to rob me of my Thanksgiving season while thrusting me into bad pop Christmas carols, but that’s so several blog posts ago.
Instead, it hailed.
I walked Jack through his wash this morning. Smokey sky and cover-my-hands chilly. I almost didn’t go, but Jack is a bird dog. The muddier, the damper, the happier he is, so I was not about to deprive him.
It started to drizzle, the kind where if you love rain, as I do, you start to do the happy dance. Things grew darker and by the time we were about half way back, it was hailing. Not really violent hail, but hail. It was a little past sticking my tongue out and trying to catch it, so I pulled up my hood and we picked up the pace toward home.
Jack was wet and panting. He ate all of his breakfast and promptly fell asleep.
There will always be cheap belly dancing Santas that arrive far too soon. Things will probably usually be about money and progress. Stupid, ignorant, and nasty is bound to happen, even in lovely Paris.
I’m the personality that could easily get caught up or pissed off. Most things get under my skin when I let them in. I need to be reminded of the things I can control and when to pull up my hood and find a cup of tea.
I guess that’s why it hails.
My thoughts from the laundry room. Paix.