I am getting soft.
When it rains, I watch the drops
pattern the gray sky from behind a window. I sip tea, warm and dry
and comfortable. I cannot bring myself to get up and run outside, to
conjure joy from discomfort. What would compel me, when I am so
comfortable in here? It is more than comfort. It is complacency. Now
that I have the choice, I only go out on the sunny days, when the
water is calm, when conditions are fair. But there is a part of me
that rebels. What joy is there in being apart from the weather? Force
me outside in the cold rain! Make me ride my bike in it, spray flying
in my wake. I want to arrive with soaking hair, shoulders steaming,
face flushed. I want to drop my head to the pillow at night, muscles
tired. Make me paddle in it, my boat slicing through the clouds, rain
dripping from my hood, fingertips raw. Make me hike in the mud, in
the snow, until water soaks my socks. Give me anything, Lord, I'll
take whatever you throw at me, but not complacency. Not this.
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