I wish it was hot, but it’s not. It will be before long, so I do my best to be patient. We go to an appointment, then to the garden and harvest handfuls of fragrant basil for pesto. At home, I work in the kitchen making dog food and that pesto.
After many trips up and down stairs, jewelled raspberry and strawberry jam filled jars are on the canning shelves, flash-frozen berries are in bags, and dollops of pesto are on trays in the freezer.
We talk about trips and vacations and the gift of staying home (I treasure this one most of all). I think about seasons: springtime, summer, harvest, and the long, cold, dark winter; and seasons of life where changes are sometimes subtle, often not. I’m not certain what to make of all that.
I read for a while in the afternoon and update my reading log. A cloud of something hovers. We play chess (I win!) and the afternoon chugs lazily along. I take coffee grounds out to the garden and return with a dish to harvest more tiny chamomile flowers.
We have dinner, watch the news, and I chat with our daughter. Our granddaughter gets on the phone and asks me to quiz her about the periodic table she has decided to study. I’m confused, and she asks to speak to her grandpa instead.
I retire early with a book as the day winds down and I’m still contemplating seasons. My dreams are vivid and silly, and I wake with a start during the night with a gift of time in which to pray.
Now it’s morning and quiet and I’m still pondering changing seasons. It’s cool, but the sun is shining and there are cotton-candy clouds in the blue sky. I’ve got soy milky frothy coffee at hand and all is well. Another day begins.