Friday, June 12, 2009

spitting in the garden and other unladylike pursuits

As fearfully expressed earlier the season has had it's way with me leaving a limp blob where optimistic energy once lived and a blog long neglected. We're finally winding down our selling season so my time, once again, will be mine own and, despite the questionable fertility of yon soil, I plan to press on regardless.

But the spitting's relatively new to this old gal having been raised even to contemplate such a gesture unthinkable. Yet time and tide does it's thing and the privacy of my gardens so indulgently permissive of all vulgarities, including the occasional 'snot rocket', all the rage in other corners of the world, allows me to blow and snort with gay abandon.

It's been a rough couple of weeks. A terrible time for a funeral when all else is so blastingly alive. I've lost someone and my small world had shifted but this little blue dot seems intent on spinning without a care. Who in their right mind could not be madly in love with this earth, so maddeningly indifferent? We always fall for those who ignore us, ha!

So again a stab at 'taking note'. Wish me luck.

  • How can I rest in the days of my slowness?
    I've become a strange piece of flesh,
    Nervous and cold, bird-furtive, whiskery,
    With a cheek soft as a hound's ear.
    What's left is light as a seed;
    I need an old crone's knowing.
    • "Meditations of an Old Woman: First Meditation," ll. 15-21

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