My brain is a bog, and in it there are planted
Seeds bought with money at a fair price,
Education, experience, and a packet of travel,
Taste and intelligence and good advice.

They were planted faithfully, a long time ago,
On a trim, well-weeded, well-watered bed,
And it was hoped by now there would be fine harvest,
But other things have blossomed in their stead.

There are no tall hollyhocks to mark the border,
The red roses have died – they were a total loss,
Only the bog-myrtle is blooming and the wild thyme,
And everywhere the heavy dripping moss.

There is no promise now of carnations or lilies,
But here is a little bunch that will live for an hour:
Marsh-marigolds and mint and water-plantains,
And sprigs of duckweed bursting into flower.

~Virginia Graham

This reminds me of a meme I saw on Facebook not too long ago: a woman lying face-down on a couch, glasses dangling from her hand and a book splayed out on the ground. The caption: “This can’t be the same brain I was using to read 750 page novels in three days in middle school.” So real, it hurts. I have been wondering lately what’s going on with my brain. It seems a smaller and more crowded place than it used to. I blame the pandemic, not to mention work and parenting, jostling for space. Tee-ball schedules, work deadlines, vaccination statistics, house projects, 401(k)s, school laptop connectivity issues, and an officemate who literally babbles to himself all.day.long. (as I type this, he’s sitting next to me repeating “badger badger badger badger badger badger…”) have taken over the entire mental real estate. But at least Virginia Graham can relate. Can you?