Last night at 7 pm I was sitting down for French class. I was being asked by my tutor to read an old short story, using out-of-date phrases and, anyway, beyond my level. I tried and I bit my lips and I bit my tongue and I didn’t manage to not exclaim with aggravation.
And then, after my tutor left, his chin down, I pulled my head up and remembered my surroundings. Sitting outside on our porch. Overlooking on this wide dark lake. Listening to the waves crash against the lava. Watching the summer lightening, no thunder, slicing down through the sky to the distant waters, illuminating the clouds.
How fantastic is my life that this has become commonplace to me? I am so used to this wonder that I can ignore it entirely while bitching about verbs.
This morning I will have French class at 7:30 am. God help me. God help my tutor. But we will be sitting in the same spot above the lake, and the morning light will be pink and clean. Wooden canoes filled with fishermen, singing, will slip between the waves beneath the wide sky. The green hills of Rwanda will roll along peacefully, transforming silently into our Congo.
And I will glare and huff and hem and hopefully improve my abilities to describe the pastconditionalblahblahblah blah.
Blah.
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2 comments:
You're a great writer. I used to feel the same way!
Thank you for your comment!!! :o)
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