Change in the wind

After the warmth of two days, bugs began to re-emerge. They're a bit confused, as if retracing the steps of their softer-climate dance while harboring questions as to the foul turn of the weather. I have the afternoon off, I am pleased to say, and have thus-far spent it reading, sleeping, mopping, and giving my two cents on the progress of my husband's painting. Now I have tea, and the wind is still singing in ever more infrequent bellows, and outside it is wet and muddy and lovely.

My husband painted this three years ago, during this watery time of year. I feel almost the same now as I did during my posing sessions, although an undefinable feeling of numbness has crept into place where once the hopefulness used to reside. I can't yet perceive what the remedy will be, and I'm waiting again. Forgiveness went a long way with my Mother, and the thorn of bitterness in this experience has been dislodged. But numbness, but stagnation, these linger. So I'm waiting again. We all are, for Spring, for March, for Saturday. I think the scariest thing about this is the not knowing what sort of person I'll be at the end of it. For so long I've kept an iron grip on what direction I steered myself, for good or otherwise. Will I still remember the part of me I actually like at the end of this sadness, or will I have become something unrecognizable to me now, something that is far away from the horizon I had hoped for? Strong winds mean new directions, and in the end, all that remains is the hope that I can one day become something pleasing to God.