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Paroxysmally preaching to the already converted

Life at Les Pierres might not exactly be a bed of roses at the moment, with a challenging present puppy pushing our habitual limits, forcing us to continuously rethink our simplest actions and their destructive consequences if remained intellectually unanticipated or unattended, and a sewage system still on a sibylline strike, predicting an imminent renewal of the septic tank and, why not go all the way, redesign and reconstruction of our bathroom, but that’s no reason to throw in any towels just yet, on the contrary, since we’re dealing with opportunities for the improvement of a future we might not have envisioned to be dawning, but it’s nevertheless worth evaluating its annunciations.

A lifestyle like ours certainly requires a flexibility that doesn’t necessarily comes natural and let’s face it, can drive you thoroughly mad if you let it, which I often do when overwhelmed by the complexity of the puzzles in need of abrupt solving. These are the awkward moments I irrationally regret not having married a technically skilled guy, a thought I then quickly reject by reviewing all of Ivory’s other wonderful qualities that erase this subjective lack of practical savviness from every equation.

It’s a common contradiction a friend of ours suffers greatly from, having smartly, or so she thought, fall in love with a contractor so swamped she still had to live under a leaking roof for years and is awaiting a proper kitchen to be installed as if rooted to the spot. Her husband is actually the one I finally contacted for help with our current inconvenience, so I hereby reproachably plead for forgiveness for adding to her agony this way.

The thing to keep in mind with all the vexing endeavors we periodically face is their observable counterbalance in beauty and ambiance, a warhorse I keep spurring even when paroxysmally preaching to the already converted, mostly meaning me, to remind myself how abstract and violent stress truly is, worth battling its attacks by dismantling all symbolism and start foraging for the actual bed of roses and its healing scents, a given assuredness. Even on this rainy-gray December day, the sun will shine again, just to please me.

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