There comes an evening when you are so tired that thoughts stray only toward the couch where you will soon position yourself and, if all goes well, not get up again.
Those are not good blogging times. I bring up the photos for the day and hope that there aren't many to look at. I wish that the post would write itself and leave me alone. Preferably on my lumpy but oh so soft bed pillow.
You've guessed that this evening awfully resembles just such a time.
Even as the day was wonderful! The wake up was effortless. Though on the earlier side of dawn.
...when everything looks beautiful.
Even the chickens look beautiful.
The sky is blue, the breakfast is sublime...
And the flowers? Ahhh, the flowers...
All that loveliness! Too much! Too much!
After breakfast, we proceed with the usual and indeed, it's one of those times where no one great task stands out. We did not build the Empire State Building nor the Golden Gate Bridge, not even a glass roof for a porch. We just did little things. Oh so many little things! Until the last rays of the sun filtered in through the trees, we worked and paused and played with chickens...
...and then worked some more. And when another break was in order, we went to Farm and Fleet to get new work gloves because every last work glove at the farmette has holes in it. When there, we looked at seeds and decided watermelon in the yard would be nice and so we picked up two packets and planted those even as there was almost no sunlight left.
And when the time comes to write a post, you always hope -- I always hope -- that an idea will have formed earlier and now you are going to merely release it and watch it develop into a sentence. Sort of like a garden that forms out of your many separately acquired plants.
That doesn't happen on a tired day. On a tired day, you let your fingers type and you hope that they have enough cerebral matter guiding them that what comes out makes sense. Nothing more than that. You just want to make sense.
If you're lucky, afterwards, you'll have enough oomph in you to crawl upstairs and turn out the lights. If not, well, there are worse fates than falling asleep on the couch and letting your someone else turn out the lights for you.
Those are not good blogging times. I bring up the photos for the day and hope that there aren't many to look at. I wish that the post would write itself and leave me alone. Preferably on my lumpy but oh so soft bed pillow.
You've guessed that this evening awfully resembles just such a time.
Even as the day was wonderful! The wake up was effortless. Though on the earlier side of dawn.
...when everything looks beautiful.
Even the chickens look beautiful.
The sky is blue, the breakfast is sublime...
And the flowers? Ahhh, the flowers...
All that loveliness! Too much! Too much!
After breakfast, we proceed with the usual and indeed, it's one of those times where no one great task stands out. We did not build the Empire State Building nor the Golden Gate Bridge, not even a glass roof for a porch. We just did little things. Oh so many little things! Until the last rays of the sun filtered in through the trees, we worked and paused and played with chickens...
...and then worked some more. And when another break was in order, we went to Farm and Fleet to get new work gloves because every last work glove at the farmette has holes in it. When there, we looked at seeds and decided watermelon in the yard would be nice and so we picked up two packets and planted those even as there was almost no sunlight left.
And when the time comes to write a post, you always hope -- I always hope -- that an idea will have formed earlier and now you are going to merely release it and watch it develop into a sentence. Sort of like a garden that forms out of your many separately acquired plants.
That doesn't happen on a tired day. On a tired day, you let your fingers type and you hope that they have enough cerebral matter guiding them that what comes out makes sense. Nothing more than that. You just want to make sense.
If you're lucky, afterwards, you'll have enough oomph in you to crawl upstairs and turn out the lights. If not, well, there are worse fates than falling asleep on the couch and letting your someone else turn out the lights for you.
