It’s a dreary morning in my head and out my window. The sky is so white with fog that I feel like I’m trapped inside a snow globe. Our outdoor furniture is dirty, the white chairs leaning against a red table, water drifting down their backs in slimy lines that pool at the bottom and speckle the chairs black. San Francisco summer.

It hasn’t been like this every day. Usually, the sun pops through, and turns the yard into a griddle, but I never wear sunscreen because I just feel like I have bigger things to concern myself with. So most days I sit  outside and sizzle my face a little more and try to meditate without concentrating on how shallow my breathing has become.

But on a wet and cloudy day, there are just windows for watchers, and that’s what I am. I can see seagulls flying over the ocean. I can see Otto pacing back and forth on the deck, head down sniffing at something through the wooden boards. When he sees me watching, he comes to beg at the door,  but there’s nothing I can do for him, and he wanders away.

The gloomy day either fits my gloomy mood or is the cause of it. It’s one of those days when Rob and Scarlett walked out the door and I felt like I had nothing left. Don’t feel sorry for me: first of all, I hate that, and second, I’m halfway through a cup of tea and I’m pretty sure there’s an attitude adjustment lying at the bottom of it. Read More>