Monday

One might say that a daily blog is a little like a daily column, written by a person who lives in a locality where not much happens, but she or he chronicles it all anyway.

I'd always wondered: if I didn't work, didn't teach at the Law School -- would my writing change? (...assuming that one's writing constraints are at least in part dictated by one's desire not to run afoul of one's employment situation.)

Of course, work isn't the only force moderating the tone of one's writing (for most of us). There is also family. My kids have grown up and moved to adulthood alongside my daily blogging. (Ocean is nearly ten years old after all.) It's a given that they are not, in the past or now, the subjects of my posts. But even if they are not the focus here, isn't it true that anything I write has to stay within some boundary of their approval, or at least not outright disapproval? True, Ocean has always been so tame (in part because my thoughts on the everyday have nearly always been so tame) that I rarely worry about its content making my girls' cheeks burn bright. If I didn't work, would my tone change at all?

I think about these things today, as the day dawns stormy and unstable. It's a good day for paper/administrative work: mountains and mountains of it, accumulated in the course of our absence.

So, breakfast, on the porch. Freshly baked granola, kefir, fruit.






And beyond the table, a view of the garden, extending toward the barn and sheep shed and, of course, the elongated flower bed leading to them. (Beyond the most prominenet flower bed just by the farmhouse.)






 Can't see much in that lushly crowded photo? Well then, here's a handful of closeups. Call it the amazing power of flowers to turn your mood around -- from frustration (how long did you last hang on the phone, trying to speak to an airline representative? to IRS? to your car rental agent who overcharged you on your last rental?) -- from that, to a quiet contentment.
















Sometime in the middle of the day, I go over to spend time with Goldie -- my charge for these few days. It's the last babysitting spin and I have to say, I'll miss that moment when I open the door, quietly, quietly and wait just two or three seconds before seeing her come around the corner to check who's there. Eventually we'll have settled down into our comfortable spots. Unlike Isis, who never, ever rests on the floor, Goldie will be content there, waiting, patiently waiting...





...until I get up to feed her.

Okay, so long Goldie.

I return home to Isis, to the farmhouse, to paperwork, to all the details of life that were put on hold for the month I was away and in between those tasks I spin course-changing thoughts and ideas for the months just ahead of me.