Outside my window, the maple has transformed its buds into leaves. Such a friendly maple. In the fall it belonged in Lothlorien; in the winter it offered a framed view of next door houses and busy Mt. Auburn Street; and now it's matured into a lovely stretched-out hand of hospitality, the slow rain enhancing its rich green hue. On our street out front, the wind kidnapped the pink blossoms off the tree across the way, abandoning them to an exotic swirly mess strewn out over the road.
Sometimes I wish my life was so simple, that it grew in cycles and always knew what was coming at the next juncture. Every season it would take on its predicted form. But I'm glad it's not like that, not exclusively anyway. There's a rhythmic monotony to life that can be wonderful, and it is wonderful sometimes, but life's variances and unpredictability make us more than one-dimensional human beings and give us a desire for order. My monotony involves boiling the water for coffee, making lunch, answering phones, talking to my house-and-neighbor-friends (heh heh, sorry, not so monotonous, guys), checking my email, going to sleep. Anything new I find in that monotony, and any time I completely drop it and do something else for a while, or any time somethings strange happens to me, I become more complex, and I treasure the monotony more.
