Me too buddy, me too.
I have missed this.
Frankentomatoes. These things are as tall as I am
And I love it. Even the parts I never used to love, or the new floppy, flabby, wobbly bits. The water, the sun, the air; all feel good against it. I want to apologize to the parts that I kept hidden for so long. It wasn’t you; it was me.
I looked for delights and found many. Wildflowers in riotous colours. A small scattering of holographic hexagons catching the light among dark weeds. Eating roasted beets and new potatoes fresh from the garden.
No idea what I was doing here but it was the only picture I took all day. So here it is.
This is a Sunday Sunday. I am hard pressed to say what I did all day. I know I swam in the morning and had Heidi over for a few hours. There was laundry in there too.
I am not upset about not noticing the day, but I’m not happy with it either. Where was the delight? I don’t remember.
It wasn’t a particularly fancy dinner, just hot dogs and salads, but our neighbours came. We talked, at and talked some more. I saw this picture later and my heart almost burst from gratitude, that we have landed in a place with people around us who are as happy we’re here as we are glad to see them.
Stratford to do things at the house, eat Thai for lunch, get chocolates, and head home. Home to do some writing, eat said chocolates and go for a post-dinner swim.
The water was dark, and even though I know how deep it is, where the rocks are, and the fish that nibble, I was still a bit freaked out by the water. But I loved floating and watching the edge of the sun creep up the tree,
There are so many things here to enjoy; why would I go anywhere else? It was different in the city, when we needed to get away from the noise and concrete and get to nature.
I am happy in this summer space, the garden, the trees and the painfully blue sky today as seen from the hammock.
I am sitting in the darkened green room, bathed in the iPad glow. Not writing, although I may write something when I finish this. Likely not though.
The quiet feels like another piece of this night, as present as the bird song is during the day. I can’t tell if I head the faintest wind in the trees, or if it’s the blood rushing in my ears.