I can’t remember being this tired. I can’t remember being this old, either. Never mind. It’s an honest, working tired. Plus, I’m still alive and kicking, which is much better than the alternative.
I’m in the secret garden heaving dirt, along with a crew of three strong men. There’s so much to do! But as we dig up and clear the ground of roots, relocate plants, move stones, and eliminate borders I reflect that this rapidly disappearing design took years to construct. It won’t exit easily.
(My shoulder, broken in mid-January, is coping pretty well. Movements involved in digging and tossing dirt are steadily strengthening muscle-attachments. Pain has gradually dissipated. Today, after two weeks of hard work, I’ve won back almost full range-of-motion. Almost.)
I’m also fiddling with furniture. We’ve swapped sofas, hauling the one from our Saginaw farmhouse up here, and hauling the one from here, back there. This living room is different, yet familiar. I like it.
My fourth musical CD is nearly done. And, I’ve discovered a wonderful book- The Hundred: A Ranking Of The Most Influential Persons In History, by Michael Hart, published in 1998. It’s riveting! Today I woke at 3 a.m. hot to read about Edward de Vere. I agree with the author’s reasoning: he’s answered a lot of nagging questions, but I’m still dazed by his daring proposition. (Are you intrigued? Check it out.)
All this physical and mental exercise has created a potential monster: Me.
To wit: Two days ago I put peas in a pot, added an inch of water, turned on the flame, and wandered off to contemplate a chord sequence in a song I was composing. The fire alarm honked! Horrified, and sadly clueless as to why, I rushed into the kitchen to look around. Phew! The stink of burning filled the air. Oh, jeez- the peas! My brand-new Caphalon pot was a charred mess.
After reassuring the alarm company, I cleaned up.
Imagine if I’d gone to the store…
The next day I tramped out of the garden and into the kitchen to pop a tortilla into the toaster. I was starving. The thought of wrapping it around crunchy peanut butter, salad dressing and diced purple onions made me drool. Alas, while it warmed I wandered off to worry about my three holly bushes.
Three minutes later black smoke billowed out of the oven: fire followed. That tortilla was toast.
What if I’d been walking Bryn three blocks away?
The fire alarm shrieked. Again.
The kitchen stank. Again.
I wearily reassured the alarm company and cleaned up. Again.
Two alarms in two days! Clearly, I’m a one-thought pony. Two thoughts- and I’m dangerous.
New Rules:
Set aside musical composition thoughts.
Books- and the thoughts they give birth to- shall remain unexplored until the garden is shut down for the day.
Buy a thigh or have food delivered until the new garden is finished.
Sunnybank House is marginally safer.
While I worked outside yesterday Bryn sat next to me gazing up at the sky, following jets as they lined up to land at the local airport. Suddenly, our attention was drawn to a noisy commotion on freshly turned earth nearby. Two fat robins were fluttering and squawking on the ground, mating. My incredulous puppy flew there to scoop up both busy birds, her eyes huge with triumph! This was a dream come true: two birds in one jaw!
With horrified squawks the robins tried to wriggle free.
Wasn’t happening.
I moved faster than light to her side and yelled a command: “Bryn! Drop them!” Surprised, she opened up. The terrified pair tumbled out with soft plops, untangled themselves, and shakily flew up to the phone wires, there to peer down at the white monster. Though some belly feathers poked out oddly, they were unhurt.
Fat rabbits frequently pop up from behind mounds of earth to watch us busy humans. Two bunnies, though, were done before they’d begun.
I glanced up to observe Bryn move slowly across the garden, her twitching nose held high. She stopped to point stiffly for thirty seconds. Finally, she moved hesitantly toward a shallow depression under the huge hibiscus bush. This behavior was unusual, so I walked over. “What is it, girl?” She glanced toward me before gently nosing two perfect baby rabbits. Though still warm, both were dead. There was no sign of trauma. Their fur-lined nest was undisturbed. What had happened?
We’ll never know.
The new irrigation system is in; the relocated fountain is up, but not running yet; five big flowerbeds have gone to grass. A brand new garden is emerging from the ashes of the old one.
Birth and death-
Here, then gone, then back again-
But different-
It’s the cycle of Life.
I’m in the secret garden heaving dirt, along with a crew of three strong men. There’s so much to do! But as we dig up and clear the ground of roots, relocate plants, move stones, and eliminate borders I reflect that this rapidly disappearing design took years to construct. It won’t exit easily.
(My shoulder, broken in mid-January, is coping pretty well. Movements involved in digging and tossing dirt are steadily strengthening muscle-attachments. Pain has gradually dissipated. Today, after two weeks of hard work, I’ve won back almost full range-of-motion. Almost.)
I’m also fiddling with furniture. We’ve swapped sofas, hauling the one from our Saginaw farmhouse up here, and hauling the one from here, back there. This living room is different, yet familiar. I like it.
My fourth musical CD is nearly done. And, I’ve discovered a wonderful book- The Hundred: A Ranking Of The Most Influential Persons In History, by Michael Hart, published in 1998. It’s riveting! Today I woke at 3 a.m. hot to read about Edward de Vere. I agree with the author’s reasoning: he’s answered a lot of nagging questions, but I’m still dazed by his daring proposition. (Are you intrigued? Check it out.)
All this physical and mental exercise has created a potential monster: Me.
To wit: Two days ago I put peas in a pot, added an inch of water, turned on the flame, and wandered off to contemplate a chord sequence in a song I was composing. The fire alarm honked! Horrified, and sadly clueless as to why, I rushed into the kitchen to look around. Phew! The stink of burning filled the air. Oh, jeez- the peas! My brand-new Caphalon pot was a charred mess.
After reassuring the alarm company, I cleaned up.
Imagine if I’d gone to the store…
The next day I tramped out of the garden and into the kitchen to pop a tortilla into the toaster. I was starving. The thought of wrapping it around crunchy peanut butter, salad dressing and diced purple onions made me drool. Alas, while it warmed I wandered off to worry about my three holly bushes.
Three minutes later black smoke billowed out of the oven: fire followed. That tortilla was toast.
What if I’d been walking Bryn three blocks away?
The fire alarm shrieked. Again.
The kitchen stank. Again.
I wearily reassured the alarm company and cleaned up. Again.
Two alarms in two days! Clearly, I’m a one-thought pony. Two thoughts- and I’m dangerous.
New Rules:
Set aside musical composition thoughts.
Books- and the thoughts they give birth to- shall remain unexplored until the garden is shut down for the day.
Buy a thigh or have food delivered until the new garden is finished.
Sunnybank House is marginally safer.
While I worked outside yesterday Bryn sat next to me gazing up at the sky, following jets as they lined up to land at the local airport. Suddenly, our attention was drawn to a noisy commotion on freshly turned earth nearby. Two fat robins were fluttering and squawking on the ground, mating. My incredulous puppy flew there to scoop up both busy birds, her eyes huge with triumph! This was a dream come true: two birds in one jaw!
With horrified squawks the robins tried to wriggle free.
Wasn’t happening.
I moved faster than light to her side and yelled a command: “Bryn! Drop them!” Surprised, she opened up. The terrified pair tumbled out with soft plops, untangled themselves, and shakily flew up to the phone wires, there to peer down at the white monster. Though some belly feathers poked out oddly, they were unhurt.
Fat rabbits frequently pop up from behind mounds of earth to watch us busy humans. Two bunnies, though, were done before they’d begun.
I glanced up to observe Bryn move slowly across the garden, her twitching nose held high. She stopped to point stiffly for thirty seconds. Finally, she moved hesitantly toward a shallow depression under the huge hibiscus bush. This behavior was unusual, so I walked over. “What is it, girl?” She glanced toward me before gently nosing two perfect baby rabbits. Though still warm, both were dead. There was no sign of trauma. Their fur-lined nest was undisturbed. What had happened?
We’ll never know.
The new irrigation system is in; the relocated fountain is up, but not running yet; five big flowerbeds have gone to grass. A brand new garden is emerging from the ashes of the old one.
Birth and death-
Here, then gone, then back again-
But different-
It’s the cycle of Life.