I can't seem to write tonight. Everything I try to say turns out sounding like a grocery list. A useless bit of ephemera, uninteresting and of no consequence.
Maybe it's my mood which is neither here nor there, simply quiet.
She trimmed my hair nicely. I feel as if I have known her forever.
I picked up my jewelry. My grown-up charm bracelet which I love, and Lily's pearls which I got restrung for her and the bracelet.
It is strange to see it shiny and not blackened with age and disuse. I am happy to have it and it feels good on my wrist. The Bacchus heads are just slightly curved enough so that they rest comfortably on the wrist. I wish I knew where it was from, who bought it and for whom, who made it and when.
I will probably never know.
So much of life is mystery. I tried writing about that and it didn't work. I will just leave it at that.
I will just say that I don't know and it's okay. I am too old to think that it really matters that much and also old enough to know that I will never know the Celestial Secrets and I will be satisfied with the wind's tongue in the magnolia leaves, the coming of night, the sense of satisfaction of a drainer full of washed dishes, the grace of a friend's hug, the feel of a bracelet on my wrist, the beauty of the season's flowers in vases in the night time hallway, the knowing that I do not know.
Sometimes you just have to give up and as the Saint Beatles said, Let it be.
And shut the hell up and pay attention and accept that it simply is.