what i make it.

I said I could do it. And I think I believed it too.

This moment is for classical music and a gulp of coffee.

Yes, after that pause, I am sure, I believed wrongly. Very much so. But isn’t that the way when we don’t know the routines and every little detail is difficult, just from the newness of it? Transitions are a terror. All that changing and feeling uncomfortably shoved into a mold that is not your comfort zone. There are surely those that enjoy this; thrive in it even. But I am not one of them, those changeful gurus.

No, no, I am best off here, drinking deep and wondering at the way all the trees seem to lean eastward. Or is it south? They appear eager for something and I am inclined to agree with them.

But she told me something today—a lady I labored alongside—“It is what you make it.” I presume she is not the first to think of such a brilliantly contented option, but she was the right soul to remind me. It is, I know it, I know it, what I make it.

There isn’t much sunlight left to see today, but I will be seeing with it for hours yet. I will carry a handful of it with me into the night and thank the trees for a lesson in leaning. It’s not always about loving where you are; it is always about loving whoever surrounds you. And if it gets me a little closer to the sun, I will lean too.

I pretend to still believe I can do it. That way I’ll survive. And when surviving feels less than enough, I’ll make it glorious. It is, after all, what I make it.