Gemotions

The email sat in Sarah's inbox, the subject line a stark, cold declaration: "Regretfully, not selected." She stared at it for a moment, then shut her laptop with a decisive click. The Olympic swim team had chosen someone else.

She walked outside, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across her garden. She began to weed the vegetable patch, pulling up stray stalks with vigorous motions. Her muscles ached, but it was a comfortable ache, the kind born of physical effort and purpose.

The scent of damp earth and growing tomatoes filled her nostrils. She watched the busy bees flitting from flower to flower, their tireless industry a mirror of her own. She thought of the painting she had been working on, the colors waiting to be blended, the canvas ready to receive her thoughts.