2020 is an effing rototiller. It’s plowed me up, yanked all my roots, ruptured my reservoirs, and spat me clean out.
I feel like nothing more than regurgitated topsoil.
And just when I’m beginning to feel the warmth of the sun on my injured insides, now exposed and unaccustomed to the open air, in the beast rushes for a second run over the tender bits. And then a third. Have mercy.
I’m done. I’m churned. I’m mixed. Mangled. Mutilated. Please, sir, I want no more.
And yet the toppling, tangling turnstile rumbles on.
Leave me alone.
If this is growing, then give me some time to grow in between all the grinding blades of betterment. And some nutrients… nutrients would be nice, if you’re gonna run me over.
Or at least some sunshine. Sunshine would go a long way, I think. Sunshine would help these aching, exposed innards feel a little less raw. A little less bleak. A little less overturned topsoil and a little more overturned potential.
Or maybe I’ve got it wrong.
Maybe 2020 isn’t a rototiller. Maybe its a sifter, separating and refining, eradicating lumps, purifying and preparing for the sweetness soon to come.
That’s what I need to think right now. As a baker and sweet-maker, that’s where I need to be. In a mixing bowl, being refined. Blended. Whisked. A panned and agitated psyche waiting on the warmth and the melding and the promise.
Ready to rise to the beauty and sweetness of what I’m destined to become.
Yes. Let it be that.
Because I could really use a little sweetness in my life. Or I guess I should say more. I have a bit, still, in my storehouse. But the bitterness is really staring to pile up.
So let’s finish this and get on with the goodness. Please.