I've spent the better part of this weekend, obsessively working on the yards. Mowing lawns, making things tidy, planting (a bit) and mulching (a lot). I got it almost done. One more wheel barrow of wood chips (the last of it, actually) tomorrow and that'll be it...for a while.
The garden is a living thing, it's never quite done. And that's okay. I just have to watch myself and remain in balance. As a minor nod towards the indoors, I laundered the couch and chair covers today (doggo furs, ya know). And it's not just inside cleaning/housework and outside gardening...it's, "when you gonna do some art, Therese?" It's, "when are you gonna practice that writing??" The answers to those questions? Maybe this week.
I'm thinking of past present future. I'm thinking of balance. I'm thinking of, who am I and what am I doing here??? I'm thinking of how furiously working helps me get out of my head for a bit, to be less lonely, to feel like I have some purpose (the plants need me...Avery needs me). So I have no profound words here, I have not profound art. Moving back into normalcy, that was never quite normal...it's hard to find that place of comfort and contentment, that place that is less unsettled.
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