When Life Hands you a Lemon Tree

I open the morning mail and a check falls out - I sold a story.

I wake every morning stiff and painful. I am kept awake half the night with muscles that suddenly jerk and flail around, out of control. This morning I got up, poured coffee and then, hunting for the catfood carefully laid my reading glasses in the cupboard and shut the door.

It's not the life I used to know. It's not the brain I'm used to functioning with. But I move. And I think. And I'm content. I'm not ready to go mountain climbing, or even to attempt to dig up the larger perennials in the garden. But for some reason life feels more full of hope and promise now than I can ever remember it feeling before. I can still garden, thanks to the technology and thoughtful minds that have rethought the tools. And I can still write, so my brain won't go to waste on junk novels and TV.

There's another saying that might be even more appropriate than allusions to lemons and fantasy islands, and that is that every time God closes a door, somewhere he opens a window.

My window is wide open, and the view from here is wonderful!

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