December 11, 2016

Cloudy With a Chance
Cloudy With a Chance

Chance of rain?  Chance of storms?  Chance of clearing?  I’m going to a meeting next Sunday of women who are working toward the last of those — clearing.  Clearing up.  Clearing up the mess.  Messes.  So many messes.

Or clearing up the confusion?  I wish I thought it were a matter of confusion.  Sadly, no.   I think everyone who made any sort of decision — whether at the top, middle, or bottom, in or out — had no confusion whatsoever.  All very deliberate and defiant and defensive — and so very destructive.

“Cloudy
My thoughts are scattered and they’re cloudy,
They have no borders, no boundaries
They echo and they swell…”

And more:

“These clouds stick to the sky
Like floating questions, why?
And they linger there to die
They don’t know where they are going, and, my friend, neither do I.”

Simon and Garfunkel had it right.  And the ocean remains beautiful for now.

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