Vulnerability

A word repeats in my journal for February: vulnerable. It conjures discomfort as well as curious grace. Life reminds me that everything is transitory. The house I have rented for five plus years goes on the market. A planned trip to France gives way to the exigencies of packing. My prospective house receives a bad survey, another goes to someone with more cash. Hopes rise and dash; one mood gives way to another. All of my dreams are about packing.

Vulnerable means I am closer to other humans; I am softer and less secure. I search for home several hundreds of miles away and wonder where I will land. As I drive, I stop for beauty, heed flood warnings, picture a life in a remote cottage as well as in town. When the day seems lost, a rainbow loops out from a backdrop of brooding clouds.

The house I live in is being shown to strangers. The agent in his Audi leaves a cloud of cologne. I cry when a long-time friend offers practical support. Re-thread intention, banish negative thoughts, begin again.