I am passing time before I commence making a (very simple) food dish to bring to an Easter dinner gathering. Concerning cooking and cleaning, I have pretty much given up on my ever being anything but a household clod, and have come to feel more acceptance of my actual domestic nature.
On the writing front, I am making slow progress on my current work-in-progress. Approaching the end, but I won't get there for a while. I wish I were a speed-writer, but I'm not. In fact, the only thing I approach with any speed at all is a piece of chocolate. So today, Easter, is pretty much my day. :-)
Still, with some authors whipping out books right and left, as if they're on a speed-date with fame, it can be disconcerting. I, myself, actually went through a relatively fast whipping-out-of-books period a few years back, but have since resorted to my usual lumbering pace. I knew it was out there waiting for me.
Coming to terms with one's imperfections is the work of the mature. By which I mean old. By which I mean probably older than you, but maybe not. When you are young you intrinsically understand that the perfections are coming. They will be here next week or next year, just hold on!
Part of me is still holding . . .
But by the time you figure out that the word "mature" applies to you--yes, you--well, you have two choices: Despair over your generally rotted state, or accept the imperfections, much as you would accept a raggedy garden. Needs weeding and watering and fertilizing, but by damn a few pink and yellow flowers are still blooming!
So maybe this is my Easter sermon. I didn't plan to have one. I don't go to church precisely because of the word "sermon," though of course that is unkind to good sermonizers everywhere.
At any rate, I wish a Happy Easter to all who are Eastering, and a happy just-plain-good-day to those who are not.
I, myself, will sit quietly for a while and try to muster my cooking gene. It's in there somewhere, waiting to flex its tiny muscle.