The wind has driven me indoors.

I stand leaning into the window, knees pressed against the deep sill. My nose would smear the glass if it was any closer: I want to be folded in the veiled sunniness on the other side. But I lack the right gear—no anorak, no gloves, no toque, no boots with lining—and even if I did have them with me I’d likely be back in again.

It’s effort to stay present, in the wind.

And today I’m searching for effort’s absence.

I miss My Sweetie. More accurately, I’m regretting the ways our activities in the past months have filled our individual time to the meniscus. Each day bulges slightly if one looks at it sidewise… a little more full than seems possible. Our days will be the same way for another two, three weeks as well. Full of appropriate things, good things, delightful things. Still: full. Which takes effort.

Today I’m choosing effort’s absence.

It’s Mission Presbytery’s annual PW Gathering again*. I’m connecting with my Gathering friends, filling in the year’s gaps. The workshops look interesting, but blessedly not too interesting… though part of me suspects I’d be all the better for a brisk round of belly-dancing. (It’s seldom a bad idea for me to link up my body to my mind.)

I’m on the windowsill instead.

In the light, out of the fight of the wind, I am digesting. Or absorbing! I want to say, and then I notice that the first word is the second. The more-active word’s the more accurate choice.

I can’t tell if the weight on my cheekbones is tiredness or oak pollen allergy. I kick at the words “expectant,” and “fruit,” but nothing falls out. I wistfully remember the trail I found this time last spring, and the library I wrapped myself in this morning,

but I have the can’t-have-its, and neither is this moment’s place to be.

The more I sit, the more I’m with my al-one-ness, the more cranky and snappish and triste I feel. Scratchy as my insides feel, “expectant” and “fruit” turn to me and say: What about transition?

You know, the point in the birthing process where labor shifts gears into something else more intense. When mothers-about-to-be routinely complain the suffering is worse, this laboring will never end, and by the way who was it that got me to this place? you should pay.

Well. What about transition?

Other than it’s effort, and today I am seeking its absence?

If I were in the transition from expectancy to fruit, what would that be?

* Here’s my post from this time last year. We can play around looking for themes, if that sounds like fun-?