Seven Minutes

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I have seven minutes to write something before I get sucked into Wednesday.  

Monday was a hard day.  Death by a thousand paper cuts.  Emotional work. Work work. Physical work, though not labour; more coughing and embarrassing side effects. It was a long haul and then even my knitting decided to give me the big middle finger.  By bedtime, I was toast.

Tuesday morning I woke up feeling almost hungover.  Monday felt like it was going to bleed into Tuesday. I opened my notebook and set a timer while I ate my breakfast.  Favourite things.  My favourite pen flew across the page.  Dozens of things came to mind and I kept going after the timer dinged.  My mood was lifting.

More than twenty years ago, Oprah talked and talked about gratitude journals. I wasn’t into that but it became a practice for me to name five things I was glad about or grateful for when I felt low.  One particular day was awful. I was struggling to come up with a list as I dragged myself home through the rain.  I got to four and then felt stuck. What on earth was I glad about?  I draggd my feet down the sidewalk as a city bus came up the street toward me. There was a huge puddle and the water arced toward me as the bus plowed through it.  I cringed anticipating a soaker. The water stopped falling inches from my feet.  I lifted my head and laughed. Number Five.

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