You know weeping willow trees. They grow near the waters' edge, trunks on the dry bank. Sitting under them in summer is not very comfortable; grass doesn't grow there, and the small sticks that collect dig into soft human hips and thighs. I sat under some once with someone I was supporting, a long time ago now. Branches grow off the trunk of the weeping willow, and leaves off the branches. The leaves are long and narrow. Most of them catch the sun. The unlucky ones dip into the waters and rot, fouling up both water and tree. You can see this in a dry spell if the water level falls. In spite of the mess, the tree sends out new leaves every year to die. A triumph of hope over experience as the saying is said.
I'm thinking this is a pretty hack metaphor for my life. Another project dawns and, until tonight I've been feeling pretty optimistic about it. That's supposed to be the sane me, the pleasant one who celebrated H's exam result and cooked a good dinner. Now I'm thinking, but I'll fuck it up. just the same as all the other idiot things I've done that showed such promise at the start. They all count for nothing, all rotted into the river that claimed them. Tonight I think it would be better to accept that all of the striving is useless, to give up sprouting every new season? If the water gets too high for too long, the roots give way. Down will come baby, cradle and all.
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