Time flies.
Every day is so full that I fall down under the weight of all the things, activities, thoughts and decisions of the day. My tolerance for things, thoughts, decisions and activities is exhausted upon reaching each night. Sleep is black and solid.
My grasses grow with some new neighbors: squashes set by caged tomatoes. And the potatoes: they're planted in an old dog-pool (without the bottom) on last years leaves and covered with composted vegetables. coffee grounds and eggshells. I added the tallest grasses (inches deep) on top, clipped to bits, to keep the water there, the way potatoes like it.
The yard will have new shade soon. Soil, here, bakes to brick, without great care. The southwest quadrant of my 1/4 acre is open to the beating heat of July and August. More shade, more better, to quote a 4 year old friend. The old trampoline frame is becoming a larger pergola, the fence line is now planted with sunflowers and silver lace vine. I'll have to decide the best place for the Flambeau grape vine, and I have another silver lace to go into my yard.
In April and May, to no conclusion, I pondered forgiveness. It was not
an abstract idea, but an odd-chance, face-to-face with the opportunity
to forgive. (And also to weigh my own selfish neediness in that
balance.) What's to be done when life serves you up somebody, a person
in it, who really needs to be forgiven? The heavy burdens of
consciousness, of choice and knowledge, with fear and imagination, seem
relieved in moments turned over to care (giving and taking). Perhaps the
best route is simply not to judge, assuming that all are forgiven. By
all standards and indications, that is not a common culture in our world,
although the lip service is plentiful. It's a hard thing to live, even for a few moments.
Every day is so full that I fall down under the weight of all the things, activities, thoughts and decisions of the day. My tolerance for things, thoughts, decisions and activities is exhausted upon reaching each night. Sleep is black and solid.
My grasses grow with some new neighbors: squashes set by caged tomatoes. And the potatoes: they're planted in an old dog-pool (without the bottom) on last years leaves and covered with composted vegetables. coffee grounds and eggshells. I added the tallest grasses (inches deep) on top, clipped to bits, to keep the water there, the way potatoes like it.
The yard will have new shade soon. Soil, here, bakes to brick, without great care. The southwest quadrant of my 1/4 acre is open to the beating heat of July and August. More shade, more better, to quote a 4 year old friend. The old trampoline frame is becoming a larger pergola, the fence line is now planted with sunflowers and silver lace vine. I'll have to decide the best place for the Flambeau grape vine, and I have another silver lace to go into my yard.
In April and May, to no conclusion, I pondered forgiveness. It was not
an abstract idea, but an odd-chance, face-to-face with the opportunity
to forgive. (And also to weigh my own selfish neediness in that
balance.) What's to be done when life serves you up somebody, a person
in it, who really needs to be forgiven? The heavy burdens of
consciousness, of choice and knowledge, with fear and imagination, seem
relieved in moments turned over to care (giving and taking). Perhaps the
best route is simply not to judge, assuming that all are forgiven. By
all standards and indications, that is not a common culture in our world,
although the lip service is plentiful. It's a hard thing to live, even for a few moments.