Sometimes, Wednesday comes and I don’t know what to tell you. This has been a problem for me for a while. So I start with tea, sencha with lavender buds and calendula. (This tea is stupefyingly good and came from the friggin’ Bulk Barn.)
I open my camera’s memory card to see if there’s anything on it that I meant to share with you, once upon a week or so ago. An accidental tree on a white-sky day, something that grows without tending. It still has a show to put on.
I make pancakes and set them out on tinfoil to cool.
I eat two and freeze the rest to toast on some other colder morning. And then I make another cup of tea, this one a maté, rooibos, and honeybush blend that I bought on my trip to David’s yesterday.
This is what happens on murky Wednesdays when I am not the writer I want to be, when I wish unwishable things and want to run away to Rome and ten o’clock is drawing near, and even though nothing is ticking in this house, I swear I can hear each second bursting. Some days, all the pancakes in the world aren’t going to save it. Some days are just sixes and sevens, and that’s all there is to it.