Cinnamon toasts.
Allergy.
Spring break.
Rain.
Silence.
Low clouds.
Sounds of jet engine.
Cancelled luncheon.
Silence.
Rain.
Monday, March 19, 2012
Monday, March 12, 2012
Tax Day
This is my designated "tax day." You know how it is. I'm swimming in papers, shuttling between computer, file cabinet, and 2011 calendar. It is about 80 degrees outside. I look out the window and see green pasture and trees swelling with early spring pink. But I can't budge. I'm stuck.
Later.
Later.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Do-nothing Saturday
Has been busy around these quarters. As a deserved (so I feel) respite, I did nothing today.
Our fruit trees are blooming: peach, pear, with the apple on the verge. KDM discovered five spears (trunks to be more precise) of asparagus in the overgrown patch. I chopped off the tops and threw them in the noodle soup.
It's crazy. And scary: What's in waiting for us this summer? After the three-months drought of last summer, we are leery, suspicious of another ambush.
Lent is not over. A time not just to discipline the stomach, but also the tongue, the mind, and the often "insubordinate" fingers on the keyboard. Can't say I have done well on any, especially the last part. So if you come back to this blog and find the previous post missing (remember, I held it back for a day), it would be that I'm carrying out a wrist slap on my own.
Not that anything I write here may be consequential, but that discipline is discipline regardless whether others are watching or caring. I owe it to myself to chop what needs chopping, prune where needs pruning.
You've heard the old adage of the "Catholic guilt." Depending on which side of the door you are on, it's either a curse or a boon. There's no science in it. The paradox of living life to the fullest joy by one who knows guilt is too much for the uninitiated. The word "guilt" is a cheat: an examined life is the only one worth living.
Our fruit trees are blooming: peach, pear, with the apple on the verge. KDM discovered five spears (trunks to be more precise) of asparagus in the overgrown patch. I chopped off the tops and threw them in the noodle soup.
It's crazy. And scary: What's in waiting for us this summer? After the three-months drought of last summer, we are leery, suspicious of another ambush.
Lent is not over. A time not just to discipline the stomach, but also the tongue, the mind, and the often "insubordinate" fingers on the keyboard. Can't say I have done well on any, especially the last part. So if you come back to this blog and find the previous post missing (remember, I held it back for a day), it would be that I'm carrying out a wrist slap on my own.
Not that anything I write here may be consequential, but that discipline is discipline regardless whether others are watching or caring. I owe it to myself to chop what needs chopping, prune where needs pruning.
You've heard the old adage of the "Catholic guilt." Depending on which side of the door you are on, it's either a curse or a boon. There's no science in it. The paradox of living life to the fullest joy by one who knows guilt is too much for the uninitiated. The word "guilt" is a cheat: an examined life is the only one worth living.
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