My sump pump has been torturing me for the last three days.
It’s been running a cycle of 10 seconds on and 11 seconds off since the middle of the storm that dumped three inches of rain. First, the clunk of the float valve, followed by the relentless hum of the pump, then another clunk signaling the valve’s closure. This sequence reverberates across my entire ground floor, forming a tedious, drawn-out melody I can’t stand. My desk, where I sit this very moment, is positioned directly above the pump in the basement.
Torture. But then…
The pump has created a little creek running down my front yard that starts at its outlet at the corner of the house. It runs down the now mushy yard and into the swale at the edge of the road. From there, it follows the swale across the end of my driveway towards the bottom of the hill a quarter mile down the road. Where I sit, I can watch the water make its journey from under my house to the bottom of the hill a quarter mile away.
And then I feel it — the gratitude.
There’s always something to be thankful for.
