It's not clear. Should we have gone to that crazy Christmas Fair or not? I know we barely missed having a ten story crane fall on us, something we soberly observed as we peered out the taxi window at a smashed car and the snake like neck of man's genius come crashing down.
It's not clear. Should I have spoken up last night? Or kept quiet and still; letting others speak, ruminate their thoughts into the air, and kept my own blunderings to myself. I know I thought about it far too much in the hours since... do I care more that I spoke ill timed words, or that others might perceive me with ill?
It's not clear. What we're having for dinner. Too late to make pizza dough, and I'm still sick from that taxi ride. Enough vegetables for curry. Maybe those muffins can wait another day.
It's not clear. The sky. It's still gritty and grey, but tinged with a coat of dirt brown. Is this blowing in from the West? I thought that happened in the spring. Or is it spewing from the factories, or the parched ground and all that dry dust that can't stay put for lack of rain?
It's not clear. Why the greatest Story the earth has ever known takes place in such humble circumstances. Why so much that is True is hard to understand. Why we can be so glad and grateful, and so sad and disappointed at the same time.
It's not clear. But it's still lovely, worth looking at.
Oh, did you think I was talking about life?
It's just a Tree I'm looking at.