Days like this still have decisions

Some dreary wet days are not inspiring at all.

So we follow the paces we've trod before, just going through what has to be done each day.  No inspiration.  But the life continues, for which we're (royal plurality of we) grateful.  OK, I'm glad to be alive. And it's cool when it's wet and cloudy.

The leaves of trees hang silently outside my living room window, here where I sit at the table.  I've opened the door to see the hummingbird feeder, and one lovely little lady looked in my eyes and decided to flit away for now.  She'll be back when I'm not looking.

Some new sounds, new male voices talking.  There's a repair crew about to fix the water leak in the parking lot.  I see one of my elder neighbors standing right in the middle of it, as if a woman belongs there in her shorts.  She'll probably tell them how to back-hoe.  She's probably done this herself.  Some of my neighbors are a hoot.

I've already made a few decisions since the first one of getting out of bed.  I read a poem by Rumi.  That was nice.  I touched the pages and used the feather bookmark of a long-gone friend, thus she is with me today again.

I then decided not to rush to post office to mail a card for a birthday next week...I'll mail it later in the day, and it will bring a smile to my dear friend, my daughter-in-law who's not married to my son.

Then I thought of what to take for lunch for Spanish class...and now that menu is set in my memory, waiting till it's time to pull it out.

I made coffee, opened the laptop, and looked to see if comments on blogs had come in while I had it closed.  Yes, a couple.  The blogger used to notify me of comments with emails.  Those days are sadly gone now.  Maybe I should try to get that to work again.

And that's how a new thought appears, and a new plan of action.

I've said all I wish to share here for now.  It's one of those days.  When something momentous happens, I might put it in my journal.  What, you think, this isn't like a journal?  No, this is to give some stories to you, little glimpses into a 75 years and 11-3/4 months old woman's life.  The fact that nobody reads this is beyond my caring at this point.  I've written.  Thus I'm an author.  I can read this again, or nobody can ever read it.  Ha.  Some days I care about that.  Not today.