I write in the morning, weaving threads and creating tapestry, lost in the process. In the afternoon, I settle into my favourite spot on the deck with a book, and a highlighter, and a Yorkie on my lap. I read slowly—rereading when I realize I’m skimming—setting my book down now and then, when a hummingbird buzzes to the feeder or I’m overcome by the sweet scent of lilac, to pay attention.
I go down the hill to the community garden. it’s hot and no one else is there. I pull a few weeds, toss some seeds in the ground, and think about doing some cultivating but it doesn’t make sense in the heat of this day. I survey my plot and start to compare my garden with others nearby, then realize the folly. I’m still at the stage of worry when I can’t see what will one day be. It’s a phase I go through every year. Patience and faith: two of the many lessons the garden reinforces year after year.
And the day unfolds: quiet and sweet and rich with simple gifts.