It’s gray, damp, and cool this morning—a respite for those who don’t appreciate the heat. A gift of disappointment for me. I appreciate our desert-like summers, relishing time spent outdoors at this time of the year and mourning every day that isn’t hot. Summer is so fleeting. It’s not even summer yet and there are still (I hope) a good number of dry, hot days ahead, but greedy Linda wants to soak up as many as she can.

Today, the changed weather pattern means I won’t wrestle with self-inflicted guilt when I’m inside at my writing desk instead of outside in the sunshine. I’m cutting garlic scapes this morning from cloves I planted last fall. Their wild whimsy a picture of seasons passing and a dance into summer.

Then, guilt free, I’m hunkering down at my writing desk and reaching for a goal with my book this afternoon.



I’m a writer, reader, and creative. I thought by now I’d have things figured out, but I keep coming up with more questions. I think that’s okay. I’m here most mornings pondering ordinary things and the thin places where faith intersects.

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