State of the Union

It’s that time of year.  Silas watched the state of the union address.  I watched for a few minutes.  I found myself wondering if the two guys sitting behind the president felt self-conscious knowing that everyone would just be staring at their faces for an hour.  Did they wonder about that?  Apparently they both assumed that the best bet was a completely blank expression.  Personally, I would find that hard.  What if your nose tickled?  What if you needed to sneeze or cough?  What if you had an annoying twinge in your neck and you really needed to stretch?

I don’t remember a word that the president said.  I admit it.  It’s not that I don’t care.  I’m like a mountain climber hanging by a rope over a thousand foot drop.  I care about other things.  But there’s the little matter of not falling to my death that is requiring my full attention for now.  There’s the precarious state of the Langley union.  I’m really more like a mountain climber hanging from a rope over a thousand foot drop with several other people hanging from my legs while hurricane force winds slam us against the rocks and huge crows try to peck our eyes out.

Well, maybe it’s not that bad.  Some days it seems that way.  Such as Thursday, when Peter needed to go to an appointment with a psychiatrist to get help with his severe depression, and he lay down on his bed and said “I refuse,” and both Silas and I tried to get him up with humor, with promises of hamburgers, with sternness, then with an arm under each of his arms trying to assist him out of bed, then with him hitting and kicking, and finally with me driving to the appointment alone, crying the whole way.  In the rain.  But the rain is good.  We need the rain.

Friday, the air was clean (at least “moderate” rather than “unhealthy”)and there were puffy white clouds floating through it and we could see the mountains. This morning I saw a small shrub putting out buds, a few of them already open.  And I thought about how persistent nature is, how even if the whole world lay in ruins and ash, there would be some shrub, somewhere, quietly blooming in whatever way it could.

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