I am in my greenhouse and noting a particularly attractive cherry tomato, all orange and ripe. Go for it, I tell myself, choosing to pop the thing right in my mouth. But not before I drop it on the stone floor. This occasions a long bout of self recrimination. Cries of ‘stupid’ being the predominant verdict on my general alertness and capabilities. My way of reacting to what is a most annoying, and frequent, occurrence. Dropping things. Vis-à-vis gravity. And then leaning over my wheelchair arm to pick stuff up.

And, of course, in this volatile state, the picking up proves to be difficult. Tomatoes are, unfortunately, more spherical than square. They have a high propensity to roll, rather than squat obediently. Furthermore, my wheelchair is just high enough off the ground to make grabbing things difficult. It is possible to give objects a swat. But actually pinching and lifting, or grabbing and holding, well, the angle isn’t good.

Which explains why an observer would find me tilted to my left, dramatically straining in the general direction of the Lost Tomato. Which is currently standing in for all things lost. Of which there are many. Remember, this is America, land of Winners and Losers. To put this in an entirely appropriate perspective, consider that our current president regards himself, above all, as a winner. Which should make the rest of us want to lose very badly. Which we are, of course, but not in the way anyone would intend. I digress.

Anyway, I am obsessing over the Lost Tomato in much the way that Sullivan obsessed over his Lost Chord. Which would have been better if it had stayed lost, for the fruit of this endeavor made him something of a pomposity. For who is to say which chords are worth finding and which aren’t?

Do remember, Gentle Reader, that necessity is the mother fucker of intention. Which means that if one is determined, and can’t let go of the Tomato Problem, eventually a solution will appear. It will just happen. Like it did to Cyrus McCormick. No Grim Reaper, that guy. He’s only been reaping profits. Me, I have decided to use the old hat trick. Freshly returned from Silicon Valley where it was warmer, I have been traveling with a hat, a felt one. Which I now drop to the ground, then bend the brim just enough to create a scoop, which despite its excessive flexibility, manages to capture the wayward fruit. And in this moment of horticultural extremis, I do have the sense to fully take in this absurdity. Noting that this tragic moment is happening to someone who is fortunate enough to own a greenhouse in one of the world’s most expensive cities. Making this a very first world problem. And reminding me to get a grip. No pun intended.

And why was I in Mountain View this very day? Helping connect a friend who is a property developer with a favorite NGO that encourages what might be called green cities. And, yes, I can pat myself on the back for this splendid thing. Even if I can’t reach my own back. And even if the latter is to the wall.

Luckily, I have a wife who reminds me of the little things that get done each day, vis-à-vis, the present. And at times I can even remind myself. And overall, even if I’m getting angry at myself, that’s a start. Because angry is better than hopeless, I always say. And much better than fearful, the background theme for the last couple of weeks post-robbery. Note that I even started and moved my car this very afternoon without sinking into deep layers of dread. I forgot to dread. After all, it’s only a car.