It has been one of those extraordinarily busy days, a day in which I have bumbled from one task to another not quite getting around to what I want to do. But there are bunnies in the garden and 30 bottles of wine resting in the cupboard under the stairs and I think that counts as a worthwhile day. My bones are aching. I sat down to meditate and I could feel the lumpen, misshapen bulk of my body: the left shoulder all collapsed, the ribs bunched uncomfortably under the bauble of fat that is my belly, the base of my spine aching, the balls of my feet feeling bruised and raw, my hands all dry and papery. This is my life, my self and my body. I said a quiet thank you between the count of my breathes, expressing my gratitude for all that I have which is nothing but this collection of errors and missteps, the aging, broken and unappealing mass of flesh that is mine and without which I could not think nor write nor make anything. Life is like this: imperfect, a compromise, a making do with the finite time and resource and capacity we have to do anything with anything.