Gerry brings home two flats of plump, sweet raspberries. I wash and crush some; cook and stir and sweeten them; fill jars with jam and set them in the water bath canner to process. It’s ridiculously cool outside for late June but in the kitchen where I work you’d never know it.
While the jam processes, I spread washed berries on trays to flash freeze before putting them in bags. I tidy the kitchen mess.
We munch hot dogs and play chess. Nibble raspberries.
Gerry spends the afternoon nursing a hiking injury on the couch with a book. He makes a difficult call. This summer—this year—is not turning out the way anyone planned back when we turned the calendar to 2020 and looked through smudged lenses to what we thought we’d be doing by now.
I read, wash paint on paper, then curl up under a blanket to watch Portrait Artist of the Year on TV and nurse a malady of my own. Thunder booms. Rain falls.
Afternoon passes. Day turns to evening.
And the Divine with us and in us, and this ordinary day holy.