This Old Door

Why has this particular mercury retrograde been such an ordeal? One expects things to become snarled up during retrogrades, missed deadlines, dropped messages, bungled communications, arguments and misunderstandings of various sorts.

At present I feel like this old granary door, all weathered planks and rusty hinges, fastened together crudely and by hand a long time ago. On winter days the wind whistles through the cracks and the hinges creak. The door seems to be in constant motion and looks as though it will come crashing down at any moment to spend the remainder of its lifespan as just a heap of splintered lumber in the paddock. Entropy is inevitable and only moments away.

I should forget about the cracks, the creaks and the moans. I should remember what fine stuff this old door is made of, oak harvested by hand, milled and planed and crafted into a portal which has been doing its job for well over a century now. I should remember the fine woodgrain, the silvery patina, the dry fragrance, how very beautiful it is.

Shame on me for being such a gloomy, saturnine and cantankerous old hen.